


Mercy, Dost Thou Have a Name?

by EmeraldSage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Always, America's a bit OC, And doesn't that add up to some interesting shit..., But it's really quick, Countries Using Human Names, England can be a bit of a sadist, Especially for an Angel, FACE Family, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Like One Chapter Long, M/M, Not Actually Very Religious, Prussia's overprotective, Putting two people in a very awkward situation, RATING WILL GO UP LATER INTO THE STORY, Sorry GerAme fans, There is GerAme, True Mates, Warnings May Change, be warned, but that's it, gerame - Freeform, i think, possible triggers, surprisingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7958497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Don't have a very clear summary just yet...)</p><p>Ivan Braginsky's done some pretty horrible things in his tenure as a Fallen Angel and the Demonic Monarch.  Sure, a lot of it was because it was expected of him, but mostly it was because he enjoyed it.  A lot.  But when he's denied the opportunity to seek peace for his people due to one of his numerous sins, he's offered the chance (not that it's much of a chance as much as a demand) to earn it, by earning the forgiveness of a single angel: The Angelic Monarch's youngest son, the Prince of the Sky.  But what exactly has he done to the elusive Prince that would warrant the green-eyed monarch hinging the entire negotiation process on the the judgement of one angel?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Terms of Victory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6308533) by [revampired](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revampired/pseuds/revampired). 



> Wish me luck!

            Faster, he had to go _faster_. He was stumbling too much, his stained shirt was ripping as he raced through the woods, and he thanked every deity he knew of that he’d managed to steal a pair of boots that were just about his size. Aside from his thieved combat boots, the once pristine white button down – that went down to his thighs in length – was the only other form of covering he had on his aching, abused body, and at the rate he was tumbling through the woods, he might not even have that.

            He shivered at the sound of the call going out throughout the royal city he’d left behind, sounding his escape to everyone who understood the notes. He checked his neck for the chain he’d slung around it – silver, _freezing_ with _his_ magic all over it, with a ruby pendant that was almost as priceless as the being wearing it – and quickened his pace. Hopefully, they only knew that _he_ was missing, and not the pendant he’d stolen from his captor’s safe.

            If they did know…he shivered. It didn’t bear contemplation.

            _Where was that damned portal?!_

            He heard a whisper in the forest behind him and launched himself into a roll, dodging the crackle of magic sent his way, and coming up in a crouched position several feet away from his assailant.

            _Royal guards. Shit!_

            He bolted forwards through the trees instead of engaging them. This would be his only escape attempt, his captor would never allow another, and he wasn’t going to ruin his chance by doing something stupid. He _had_ to find that portal!

            Another crackle of magic sounded in the woods, but it was no spell that caused it. A grin lit up his face as he dove away from the long-handed sweep of a guard’s sword and changed directions entirely.

            He may be aching, beaten, and abused, but he was still the fastest being in all the realms. There was no way he was going to let those damned guards catch him!

            …Of course, making it through the portal wouldn’t stop the chase entirely, he admitted in the recesses of him mind. It would only take the chase into the mortal realm – onto the green and blue planes of Earth, where humans and beings alike dwelled together – where _every being_ , no matter the type, was allowed to reside. But in the human realm, _his people_ would be able to feel his aura. They would sense him and come for him…hopefully.

            That hope was all he had; after two years of torture and abuse, it was all he could cling to. That he would see his home again, that he would see his family…only days ago it was the pipe dream of a particularly tormented prisoner. He was _so close_.

            He launched himself through the crackling rip between the realms, pulling himself into a crouch as he landed on the rough concrete of an alleyway in New York City. And in a movement with more fluidity than he thought his battered body could pull off, he deployed his wings and hurled himself into the air, loosing a massive spike of his magical energy, signaling to all the world above of where he was.

            The guards were quick behind him, deploying raven black wings to contrast with his own gold tinted white with more of them following through the portal. He could feel the portal swell with the energy of all those trying to crossover, knowing that if he stayed on Earth any longer than he had to, he’d be overwhelmed in a heartbeat. He streamlined himself as he bolted upwards – like a golden rocket deployed from it’s launcher – feeling it as he passed the heights of the city boundaries and started wandering into the upper levels of the atmosphere. The air was thinning, and he could feel some of the guards on his tail – farther than they’d been earlier – falter as the lack of oxygen started becoming an issue. A quick flex of his wings and he increased his speed, feeling the thin air condense around him in welcome memory. In homage to a lost child coming home.

            This sky knew him. This sky _loved_ him.

            An updraft – far too high in the atmosphere to be natural – caught in his wings and he flared them for maximum lift. He was catapulted upwards, just in time to feel new energy signatures come crashing downwards from a portal which had opened almost directly above him – just a little farther.

            The wave of beings that fell from the portal had wings as white as he – lacking the golden tint, but no less unique to their own – and their anger, hope, and purpose shone brightly in their aura as they parted around him, aiming at the guards sent to catch him. The portal pulsed above him, warm energy welcoming him, coaxing him: _just a little bit more, child, you can do this…_.

            There was a roar behind him – below him – and he realized that his captor had finally made his way through the Earth-bound portal. But he was too late, far too late he thought with a dizzyingly elated smile, because as his captor was launching himself into the air to join the frantic chase, he had hurled himself through the sky portal into his home domain.

            There was a hushed silence when he’d cleared the portal – having dropped to his knees on the cloud bank it was situated in as the exertion from flying like he’d never flown before finally caught up to him – until another being knelt in front of him. He was huffing, breath stolen by his flight, but a glance up sent him nearly collapsing into a puddle of relief.

            Arms caught him as he launched himself into his brother’s arms and cheers – filled with joy, and happiness, and unrestrained tears – rocked the city upon the clouds. He felt tears drip down his cheeks.

            After two years, he was finally _home_.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one went through a couple of rewrites, so I hope you enjoy it!  
> The next one might not come as quickly though, I'm sorry!

            The Spring Palace of Heaven was one of the most beautiful examples of architecture within the Royal City, and – as some would argue – throughout the cloudy domain in its entirety. Of course, there were some staunch advocates that the Imperial City’s Winter Palace was twice as beautiful – particularly in the winter, when the snow and ice shading the marble structures made it as blindingly beautiful (literally) as it was terrifyingly lethal – but there was a general consensus that the Spring Palace was something unique.

            It’s walls were thick marble, centuries old and still standing strong. The halls were winding and straight as well; it was a labyrinth and a grid in much the same way. There were loops where gardens grew, and the courtyard court was the center of the magnificent structure. Even as mysterious as it was, all the residents and visitors of the Spring Palace with a pure heart and gentle thought could always find their way. The palace always had a gentle, calming aura, and those whom it liked would always know their way.

            Consequently, some of the more corrupt court members and the occasional spy would be confounded with how easily some people learned to navigate the labyrinth. And then they always wondered why _everyone_ , from the King himself down to the servants, had never been surprised when they were discovered.

            Something truly wonderful about the Spring Palace – at least in the minds of the majority of its permanent residents – was that the spaces within the marble halls and rooms were, more often than not, entirely sound proof. This particularly endeared the Spring Palace to one of its youngest residents, who blamed the acoustics of the Winter Palace as much as he blamed his brother and brother-in-law for traumatizing him during their mating consummation (he heard _everything_ , and there were some things you just _didn’t want to know_ about your brother).

            So when the two most powerful monarchs in the realms were practically screaming and seething at each other in their rage, the servants, guards, and other guests around the palace were blissfully unaware.

            The diplomatic envoys on both sides, on the other hand, cringed away from the two most powerful beings in the world on two opposite sides of the court hall. They still had to maintain pretense, after all.

**BREAK;BREAK;BREAK**

            The Demon King snarled as he stormed through the gleaming marble halls of the angelic Spring Palace, terrifying passing servants and guards alike as he made his way through the winding building. The Angelic King’s smug smirk would not leave the irate demon’s mind, and it was driving him absolutely mad.

            The Angelic monarch had stared at his demonic counterpart when the two diplomatic envoys had met for the first time, and demanded one thing from him: his youngest son’s whole-hearted, genuine forgiveness of the Demon King’s personal actions against the young angel himself. That was the condition upon which their peace talks and negotiations could begin, and his people could begin healing from their last, and particularly disastrous, war against Heaven.

            He sighed, frustrated, feeling the anger at the monarch’s demand seep away from him as the calming serenity of the palace finally worked its magic on his mind. He knew the cruel things his soldiers –and he himself, as well – had done to their angelic counterparts, and the King had every right to ask him to make up for it when it violated the basic rules of war that the two realms had created after the sheer destruction that was their original war.

            But what had he done – he, personally – to a prince he’d never met to have the green-eyed monarch hinge the entire negotiation process on one young angel’s judgment?

            The clangs of steel and sounds of exertion brought him out of his weighted thoughts, and he realized he was near the inner palace’s gardens. He rounded the corner just in time to see a whirl of loose white cloth leap into a nearby tree, a hail of steel following its ascent. The whirl of cloth – a young angel, he realized – loosed a wave of glimmering throwing daggers, pinning the opponent to the ground with a startled yelp.

            Despite having pinned their opponent, the angel refused to drop from their vantage point, face shrouded by the tree’s covering, and Ivan couldn’t make out anything but slender legs crouched low on a high branch, only barely visible with the shift of the airy white tunic. The pinned opponent shifted and cursed – impressing the monarch with the quality of the vulgarity spilling from the elder angel’s mouth – before using sheer brute strength to pull his right arm from its pin, ripping the sleeve in the process.

            A glimmer of steel sang through the air and the pinned angel froze. Ivan himself had only barely caught the gleam of the deadly needle when it hit, only millimeters from the angel’s crotch.

            Ivan had to restrain both his laughter and his instinctive flinch. This angel certainly had good aim.

            “Yield,” a soft voice demanded, and the monarch realized it was the angel in the tree. At the same time, he felt the nagging sense of familiarity alert his brain the moment the voice had spoken. The angel on the ground groaned a denial, preparing to rip himself from the vicious pin, before two more senbon – one inching even closer to the angel’s crotch and the other barely missing his jugular – changed the answer entirely.

            He started, as the pinned angel finally yielded and pulled himself from the deadly steel holding him down, when he realized that it had been _Gilbert_ who’d been sparring with the angel in the tree. Gilbert, who’d been his war general and training specialist; a former Fallen, until he clashed with Heaven’s heir and fell in love. The purity of their love and mating had been enough to allow Gilbert back into Heaven as an angel.

            But as an angel or a demon, Gilbert had _never_ been easily defeated, not even in spars. Ivan himself had to put more effort into defeating Gilbert – back when they used to spar frequently – than he did with any opponent he’d ever had to face, and even then, the victory was always closer than he’d like. For this young angel to defeat Gilbert, when he knew of only _one_ angel to have ever done so before….

            “Well done, Alfred,” Gilbert said with a groan as he stretched out his aches, smirking as he did so, “You’ve gotten better since last time, brat.”

            And, indeed, there he was: a vision of white, gold, and azure, beautiful in a way he’d never encountered him before. The white, billowy fabric swirled with the younger’s graceful movements, two ornate golden bands – one on each bicep – gleamed atop the billowing sleeves, which concealed numerous deadly weapons. And finally, he could see that beautiful face, with soft, rosy lips quirked in a half smirk, freckles glowing in the sunlight, with azure eyes gleaming under golden wheat locks – with the one, stubborn little cowlick that refused to be tamed – topped by a golden coronet, embedded with sapphire.

            His heart sunk into his stomach, a cold chill invading his body ruthlessly.

            _A golden coronet_.

            He withheld a sharp inhale as realization swarmed him, almost knocking him to his knees with the depth of it. The Angelic King had decreed peace talks to begin when his youngest son had forgiven the Demon King for the personal actions taken against him during the war, and it had startled every member of the court in attendance. No one had heard of any personal slights that the other monarch had committed against the youngest angelic prince, but the fire in the king’s caustic green eyes lent no reprieve to their surprised minds. Only truth lay in those fierce eyes.

            Truth, and a fierce hate that ran so deep Ivan had almost been unable to associate it with the purity of the King’s aura. He’d seen the lines of grief in the monarch’s face, but in his eyes…. Well, there was a reason Arthur Kirkland was King.

            The whirl of white cloth drew him from weighted thoughts, as Alfred descended from his perch in the trees, pulling his throwing daggers from the ground where they’d once pinned Gilbert to the ground, looking every inch the mischievous prince he was.

            The mischievous prince whom he’d found, concussed and injured on a battlefield in the human world during the war. The mischievous prince he hadn’t known was a prince at all. The same mischievous prince – beloved by the entire Angelic realm – who he’d taken captive, who he’d personally tortured, tormented, and interrogated for two years.

            The same beautiful, brilliant, mischievous golden haired prince whom he forced to his bed nightly, from his first day of captivity, unable to deny the temptation the ethereal young royal had present to him so unwittingly.

            The same prince who’d gotten away. The one who’d lost him the war. The only one he’d ever seen in his dreams when yet another warm body in his bed wasn’t at all enough to compare to the one being whose warmth had cocooned him in a pillar of fulfillment, of satisfaction; who’d made him feel _whole_.

            He bit back a groan and stopped himself from banging his forehead against the trunk of the nearest tree. He was so, unbelievable, indisputably, unrepentantly _fucked_.

**I AM A LINE BREAK; HELLO** **J**

            He felt his lips quirk into a half smirk as he collected his throwing daggers mixed in with the senbon he’d snuck from the human world on his last visit down there. They were really useful, easily adaptable to his fighting style, and most opponents could rarely see it coming. Gilbert was still plucking a few from his clothes, where they’d made little holes near the seams when he’d pinned the elder down. The albino angel painstakingly reached down – looking around twice beforehand, much to Alfred’s silent, but palpable, amusement – and carefully extracted the deadly needles from were they’d come within millimeters of his _‘Awesome Five Meters’_ , as he so often called it.

            Getting one over his brother’s mate in such a fashion made his blood pulse and heart sing with victory. And he’d been so subtle about it, too! It’d been so unlike his normal offensive style.

            “Geez, brat,” he heard Gilbert groan, and he side-eyed him as the elder shot him a narrow-eyed glare, concealing the pride at a student’s success that had made it’s way onto the elder’s face, “you couldn’t have been more gentle with those sharpies? My clothes are totally not awesome right now! How can I go meet up with Birdie like this?”

            “You should’ve thought about that before you jumped me, shouting ‘ _Sneak Attack_ ’ like an idiot,” he deadpanned. Gilbert huffed, before perking up.

            “The Awesome Me will look Awesome in anything I wear!” he declared snootily, sticking his nose in the air, like his brown-haired cousin was so often wont to do, drawing a snort from the young prince.

            “I’m not sure Father will agree if you turn up to the banquet tonight in those clothes,” Alfred felt a smirk twist his lips, “imagine the restrictions he’d come up with.” The look on Gilbert’s face made him want to burst out laughing, but he held it in. He hadn’t laughed properly in years, and getting back in to the habit was a lot harder than he thought it would have been.

            “Eh,” he declared, unconcernedly, “the old Papa Bear’s not that strict with me and Birdie anymore.” Ruby orbs eyed him wickedly, “At least, nothing compared with how he’s been treating you lately.”

            “I don’t think he’d let it slide tonight,” the azure-eyed angel admitted, ignoring the second half of Gilbert’s statement, perching himself on a lower branch of the tree he’d been in earlier, “I heard the demons sent their diplomatic envoy earlier this week. They’re in the castle right now, and that’s probably why we’re having a banquet so early in the year.” Banquets were only ever held on special occasions or holidays, and to have one so out of the blue prompted a lot of speculation, both in the palace and in the cities.

            Gilbert hummed a bit before turning a sharp glance on Alfred himself, who suppressed a shiver as he was greeted with the vicious reminder of another side of Gilbert he’d rather never see again in his life, studying him for a second before his eyes softened with apology. “They’re saying the King is here.”

            There wasn’t a single hitch in his breath, “Father informed me this morning.” In, and out, he reminded himself. He had to breathe; in and out, in and out. It kept the memory of those violet eyes and that searing touch at bay, and composure was everything in court life. He had to _breathe_.

            “He’ll probably be present at the banquet.” _He’ll see you_ , was the unspoken concern. His lungs were light; he breathed, in and out.

            “Father said Matthew and I were not to attend.” Lord, did he sound like an obedient little drone. He’d _never_ been this obedient, especially not to his father, but the sensations were clearing through his mind, enough that he could see Gilbert just below his perch. He pushed down the indignation at the way he sounded and embraced the relief he’d felt knowing that he wouldn’t be there when the King was introduced to the Angelic court. _There,_ he realized, the world was clearing; the images were being pushed back behind the walls he’d built to keep them at bay. He could see Gilbert’s ruby eyes – sharp with concern – watching him with a gentility he only saw the other use with Alfred’s older brother. It’d been _years_ , he knew; he should be able to handle this.

            “Such a shame,” a voice commented from behind him, and he couldn’t help the way every muscle in his body went rigid and his soul sang with a mix of fear and anticipation. The walls in his mind suddenly seemed as if they were made out of glass, and he could suddenly see straight through them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a demon step into the garden where he and Gilbert had been sparring, violet-eyes and silver hair and the ruby-encrusted silver crown that identified him should all else fail.

            A familiar smirk stared back at him, and his lungs felt heavy. He felt the light tap of a sledgehammer, testing itself on suddenly fragile glass walls.

            “I’d been so looking forward to meeting the beloved Princes of Heaven.”


	3. Chapter 2

            The music of the ball was melodic and airy as usual. Angels drew their dates or their mates closer to them and took to the dance floor after the ceremonial part of the evening had finished, keen to exploit the buoyant atmosphere while they could. Smiles flitted around the white-winged beings, and some demons watched, awestruck, at the beauty of the crowd as they melded into an age-old tradition of laughter and good fun.

            King Ivan Braginsky wasn’t one of them. He’d seen the dance of olden days many times before – participated in them once, long ago – and they no longer lightened his heart and unburdened his soul as they once did. He watched his angelic counterpart lead the Captain of the Royal Guard into a swift, naughty little ditty that made all the mates in the room pull their partners closer and laugh a little louder. Smiles turned slyer and even King Arthur seemed to finally release the tension lining his shoulders.

            Seemed to, being the operative words; Ivan doubted even the best dance in the world would get the King to relax in these circumstances.

            He avoided the nubis flowers that framed the dining tables, even as the angels – and some of his own demons – plucked some of the petals from the beautiful, sky soft flower and dropped them into their drinks. He made a mental note for himself to keep an eye out for those demons. He knew from past experience that the nubis flowers were almost like a slow-acting aphrodisiac and fertility booster. When paired with the alcohol that angels favored, it turned into one hell of a mood setter, and he was certain that more than a few of the angels around him had been conceived as a result of the common pairing.

            Ingesting the flower now would bring about little good. He doubted the King would forgive him if he sexually assaulted the other monarch’s youngest son as a result of the flower’s subtle prompting. He knew better. He was trying to earn the kingdom’s _forgiveness_ , not its everlasting enmity.

            _Alfred…_

            And on the note of the youngest prince of heaven…he felt his eyes darken, and hoped those watching mistook it for boredom or weariness.

            Before this afternoon, it had been five years since he’d last seen the young angel, and in his case, absence had certainly made _something_ fonder. It had felt like five years turned to an instant as he’d stared into startled and panicked sky eyes in the inner garden.

            _He was looking into pools of blue - beautiful, stunning bonnie blue that had always reminded him of the sky – he hadn’t seen in **so long**. It felt like a balm to his rage. Even panicked and ready to flee, those eyes soothed a restlessness in him that he hadn’t expected. He felt his body reacting to the presence of the young angel – just as it had all those years ago, when he’d first laid eyes on the injured soldier._

_Only this time, blue eyes were distressed instead of confused, resigned, or silently defiant, and it jerked him into the present._

_But **stars** , did it feel good to have those eyes back on him._

_Unfortunately for him, Gilbert felt the need to jump in, whirling around in front of Alfred, placing himself in a defensive position should the need arise. Red eyes glared at him protectively, even as he kept contact with startled blue behind the other._

_The barbs they traded were venomous, barely covered with the deceptive illusion of pleasantries, and lethal enough that the court – either one – would approve. Gilbert was Alfred’s brother-in-law now, and even whilst he’d been Ivan’s own general, Alfred had always held a spot in the albino’s heart. Ivan had never known why, but it had been potent enough that it had helped Gilbert ascend to Heaven. Alfred would’ve never trusted Gilbert with his brother otherwise, regardless of him being the younger._

_And now, instead of shielding the young angel from the lecherous intent of numerous guards and other interrogation specialists, the red-eyed former general was shielding the angel from Ivan. And that bothered him as much as it pleased him._

            “Another drink, your Majesty?” a voice asked him to his side, and he shook himself from his memories as he turned to accept the new drink from a servant at his side. He eyed the wine in his glass warily before deciding none of the servants would risk intentionally putting nubis petals in his drink and taking a sip, retreating to his thoughts.

            He hadn’t actually spoken to Alfred. Gilbert had stalled and delayed him, so that even though the blue-eyed angel had been right in front of him, he hadn’t had the chance to address him or the issues that lay between them. A servant girl had come upon them when he thought he might’ve had the opportunity, and informed the prince that his father had called for him. It’d been important information that they couldn’t risk delaying, she’d elaborated when Gilbert had looked reluctant to let Alfred go alone, chancing a quick glance at him before silencing herself.

            The blue-eyed prince had left, gratefully, with not even a retreating glance his way, and Ivan was left to stew in the near-overwhelming thoughts of what he could’ve said.

            He wandered over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, half covered in their night-blue and golden accented draperies, casting his gaze over the open gardens that went far beyond the rear courtyard. Just glancing over it – even as high up as he was in the palace – he could tell it was extraordinary. It was just akin to a maze – even more so than the palace itself – but twice as stunning. It was the crowning jewel of the palace, and it was a well-known sanctuary for the royal family. The level of calm it inspired made it a particularly sought out place for the angelic monarch whenever he was overly frustrated, and there were rumors that the green-eyed liege had his own personal rose garden somewhere within. It was so famous that he’d had to rescue several of his own demons from getting lost in the maze on their first day in the palace. It was embarrassing, even if the some of the angels in court admitted that they’d done the same on their first trip to the Spring Palace.

            He eyed the curves of the hedges in the dark, catching glimpses of marble as the hedges opened up in some areas to bright, airy clearings with benches and statues abound. He could vaguely see a fountain in the distance – far into the depths of the maze – before a hint of movement caught his attention.

_Now, whoever could that be?_

            It was hard to mistake that flash of gold for anyone else.

* * *

            The gardens were a maze during the daylight hours, but in the nighttime, they transformed into a labyrinth that Theseus would’ve been worried about entering, even with Ariadne’s string and without the monstrous Minotaur out to eat him and his fellows. But to the palace’s permanent inhabitants, the labyrinth was a sanctuary necessitated by the drama and perils of court life, and as harmless as newborn lamb.

            Alfred could navigate the gardens blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back.

            (Not that he’d _ever_ want to. Too many bad memories)

            On this night, he paid little attention to the ominous shapes and shadows cast by the hedge walls or the statues that had been strategically placed to terrify intruders. Enemies on all sides had beset his mind, and only his solitude offered him a brief armistice. The wall of iron chains and stone foundation that he’d built to keep the memories of his captivity at bay had turned to pale, delicate glass; fragile and delicate, but far from opaque. Any peak into his mind offered the memories he’d so badly tried to suppress, only barely held back by easily destructible glass walls.

            And earlier, it had been his father wielding the sledgehammer.

            _“You want me to **what?!**_ ”

            He flinched as the scream echoed in his mind, though his stride didn’t falter. His father had summoned both he and his brother to their private family room, the only other present was the Royal Guard’s captain, who both he and Matthew knew was their father’s confidant. That’s when he knew whatever his father wanted to tell them, it would be bad.

            Bad didn’t even cover it.

            _“I only want you to be **happy**._ ”

            He’d scoffed then, to his father’s face. How could he be happy with what his father would be forcing him to do?

            “ _I want my son back, damn it! I want my summer’s child, my laughing, bratty little nuisance! To see you so despondent, so lifeless…I want to see you smiling again. If this is the only way…is it a crime, Alfred?_

            If it had been anyone else who’d said those words to his face, he’d have hospitalized them. So what if he’d changed since he’d returned from captivity? That would have changed anyone! So his smiles were a little more plastic, his laughter a little emptier, and his demeanor far more subdued; so what? He’d just changed, that’s all. That was no crime! He felt his hands tighten into fists.

            “ _You owe him nothing_ ,” his father’s voice echoed in his head, “ _but he owes you the world. Give him the chance to give it to you.”_

His palms were bleeding with the force with which he’d clenched them.

            “ _And if that makes you happy…if he makes you smile…”_

            His eyes slid shut.

            “ _Then forgive him.”_

* * *

 

            “It’s a beautiful night,” a voice commented from behind him. Unlike earlier in the afternoon, however, he met the sunset-hued eyes coming to a stop next to him with a smile.

            His brother could’ve been his twin in their appearance – with blond locks and a slim figure – and growing up, they’d often been confused for each other. But as they’d gotten older, Matthew had gotten taller, his build became bulkier, his hair turned paler – a more pastel pale blond than his own wheat golden – and the curl of his hair became more noticeable. The one thing that had separated them from birth – Matt’s sunset indigo-violet eyes – had become far more striking than they had been throughout their childhood. Alfred’s build was far more streamlined – slim and lithe, but perfect for flying at the unrestrained speeds he loved – though he could still almost match his brother in brute strength. The blue bonnie skies in his eyes had deepened, and the hue became even more potent a reminder of the sky that adored him.

            Matthew was classically handsome; a statue stolen from the Acropolis itself.

            Alfred was _ethereal_ ; beautiful in a way no one could describe, and still unmistakably male. Though, certainly, that’s not how he thought of himself.

            Those sunset eyes watched him lovingly, but there was gentle concern in them as well. His brother rarely broached such issues out loud, but whenever he had concerns, his intent was unmistakable.

            “It certainly is,” he agreed, smiling as he turned his attention upwards again, to the starry sky above the clouds, “the stars are in formation tonight.”

            His brother hummed next to him, “Are they?” He scooted closer to his brother’s warmth as the elder settled next to him on the cold marble bench. The frost-nipped air of winter had chased them into the early spring. The equinox was soon to be held, but he doubted it would warm considerably until afterwards.

            “Mhmm,” he agreed easily, jerking his hand upwards – making sure to avoid exposing the dried blood on his palms – pointing at a particular constellation in the star lit night, “that’s one of my favorites. It’s Leo, but that means we’re hovering around the southern sky at this time of year. You should be able to see Hydra, too, but I haven’t found it yet.” Matthew smiled softly at his quiet enthusiasm. Set him under the stars and all that exuberance that drove his father absolutely mad whilst growing up calmed to an almost unbelievable degree.

            They sat quietly for a while, Alfred gradually dropping his head onto his brother’s shoulder. The elder blond wrapped an arm around the younger’s waist and curled him closer, like they did every time they sat together. He could feel the yawn Alfred tried to conceal against his shoulder.

            “Sleepy?” he inquired, feeling Alfred hesitate, then nod, before posing, “Do you want to head inside?” There was silence for a while. It was nothing Matthew hadn’t anticipated – they both knew what event was going on within the palace walls at this time – but he hoped that Alfred would speak up at some point. Normally, he wouldn’t be averse to sleeping in the garden with his brother – stars knew he’d done it before – but the air was still crisp with winter’s bite, and he’d forgotten to bring a blanket. They’d freeze before they fell asleep.

            “…can I stay with you tonight, bro?” came softly from the younger blond, interrupting his thoughts, and his attention refocused. He knew the reason behind the unusual request.

            “Of course,” he replied easily, nodding for assurance, “you’ve always had an open invitation, little brother.”

            Blue cerulean peaked up at him, “Will Gil mind?” Matt paused for a second, before shaking his head, astounded he’d even paused to think of it.

            “Of course not,” Gilbert was even more protective over Alfred than Matthew was, and _that_ was once thought impossible. He felt the smile peak on his brother’s lips, and felt a matching one stretch across his own.

            “Come on,” he insisted, levering himself up, tugging his mildly protesting brother with him, “let’s go inside. Mine and Gil’s room is always warm, and I can pull out that old quilt that _maman_ made for us and spread it out near the fireplace. What do you say?” The nod was quiet, unlike his brother, but suitable for the mood the younger seemed to be embroiled in. He sighed silently to himself as they began moving through the maze with the ease of long practice.

            Alfred had been in a far more subdued mood ever since the news of the Demonic Monarch’s arrival had reached the palace, not to even mention the discussion they’d had with their father earlier this afternoon. The younger angel had frozen solid when he’d comprehended the messenger’s frantic babbling, and nearly slipped from his chair, almost completely catatonic. His magic had erupted almost violently the moment the messenger had vanished down the hall. He and Gilbert had managed to calm his frantic, volatile little brother before the younger leveled their private wing of the palace, but only just. He could only thank the stars that he and his brother had been eating a private brunch with his mate when the news had come. He doubted that Alfred’s loss of composure would’ve gone over well with the court members.

            _And speaking of loss of composure…_ the source of Alfred’s was standing in the shadows near the palace’s entryway.

            “Hey, Al,” he blurted, catching his brother’s attention before their watcher could be noticed, “I just realized I had to tell Dad something earlier, but I’d forgotten to. Would you mind heading up with Gil? It was pretty urgent.” _Stars_ , but that sounded like the kind of bullshit his brother would’ve spewed at their father when he was making excuses, but his brother didn’t question him. He’d rather doubted that Alfred would, given the younger’s current desire to avoid their father (and the other monarch) for as long as possible. His red-eyed mate slunk from the shadows of where he’d been following them, startling his brother who’d been unaware of the elder’s presence, and linked arms with the golden-haired angel, wearing a smirk larger than usual.

            “C’mon brat,” he chuckled, glancing at blue eyes before – almost invisibly – glaring at darkened, concealed violet, “we’ve got to set up before _somebody_ shows up and wrecks our fort.” His brother perked up; he loved making pillow forts with Gilbert. With both their war training, they made some pretty impressive linen structures.

            “If I’m not back in thirty, whatever’s there can stay for the night,” he drawled. And with that, his mate hauled his brother through the entryway and into the lit hallways of the palace, leaving him alone with his brother’s nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop writing cliffhangers...but they're so much fun!  
> Also - should I go a little lower on the level of drama in the chapters? I'm not too sure about that myself...


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfred surprised me in this chapter - I hope he surprises you, too :)

            There was silence for a brief, breathless moment.

            “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

            More silence. Matthew was staring at the monarch out of the corner of his eyes, refusing to look at him directly. He could _feel_ those violet eyes glaring at him; feel the poison in their gaze, steeped in shadows. The breeze blew around him, nipping his exposed skin with an almost malicious chill. The shadows of the hedges seemed deeper, somehow, and every light in the night sky suddenly felt muted. And Matthew – despite all his powers, strength and ability – suddenly felt very frightened, standing all by himself in the middle of a darkened courtyard, and the sole focus of a piercing, ruthless gaze that had nearly destroyed his brother.

            He shook it off; the demonic monarch would not intimidate him when the other being was the one in the wrong.

            “You have no right to ask his forgiveness,” he growled, “no right to re-enter his life.” He wheeled around to face the monarch as the other slowly stalked from the shadows.

            The other chuckled and he felt the air around him freeze with renewed chill, “You think this was my intention? That seeking forgiveness from your brother was at all a part of the negotiations I planned for?”

            “It was our Father’s intention,” he stated as the monarch drew closer, “he admitted it to us this afternoon. But you’re going along with it, and that’s enough reason to be suspicious.”

            “Oh?” the monarch had the gall to sound _surprised_ , of all things, “Is it wrong to seek peace for my people?” Matthew glared.

            “That’s not all you’re seeking, and we both know it.” The monarch hummed, and silence fell between the two of them. Matthew almost jolted when he realized that the other was _studying him_ , and the silence was charged with tension.

            “Your father is the one impeding negotiations, with this… _request_ of his,” the other posed, voice still accented with diplomacy, “Once peace has been established, we will leave, posthaste.”

            “If it hadn’t been for Father’s _request_ , you and your envoy would be here for _formal trials_ ,” he declared, noting the faint glimmer of surprise in violet eyes, and wondered at it. Surely he hadn’t thought they would settle for anything less, not when one of the royal family had been so impacted by it.

            “Ah, and what could bring a King to trial for leading his nation in war?” the other inquired, stepping all over Matthew’s red button. Sunset eyes tinted red in rage, and the monarch’s gaze sharpened in curiosity.

            “ _You_ …you _hurt my brother_!”

            “Did I?” oh, there was so much mocking that accented that question, along with feigned surprise. And Matthew, already borderline enraged, felt his fury smolder.

            “What is it you think I did to your brother, Winter Prince?” the King asked him, mockingly, eyes alight with a malicious glow.

            “I saw him!” he hissed, seething, “I saw him when he first came home, before the hospital.” He could feel his throat tightening in recollection of the way his brother had stumbled from the sky portal, barely covered, shaking with exertion, and every inch of skin bruised, cut, or bleeding, save for his face. “I was the one who caught him when he came through the portal. I had to carry him to the hospital. I was with my father when the healers came to tell him _what you’d done_.”

            The King waved a hand in dismissal, “Half of his wounds were from that three mile trek through the forest from Imperial City. Certainly, he was well enough to outfly my _entire Royal Guard_ once he’d reached Earth’s plain.”

            The Prince Heir stared at the monarch in utter incredulity for a minute.

            _Did he just…_

            “Did you seriously just _deny torturing and raping my little brother?!_ ” Everyone involved in the situation knew exactly who had been responsible for his brother’s torment. The magical signature embedded in his brother’s wounds and deep in the younger’s psyche were utterly unmistakable. And this being was _denying it to his **face**...!_

“Of course not,” the elder shook his head, looking at the prince in amusement, “I couldn’t possibly deny that. I certainly let very few others near enough to the little prince to be capable of doing the same.”

            The sunset-eyed prince opened and closed his mouth several times, before it snapped shut, completely frustrated, rage building as he felt waves of red trickle into his vision.

            “ _You_ …argh, I don’t care what Father says! You and yours owe us in _blood_.”

            The violet-eyed monarch eyed him, before smiling; soft, slow, and completely cold. The prince could feel the air crystalizing around him and resisted a shiver. _This_ wasn’t the reaction he’d expected from his inflammatory comment.

            “So,” Ivan pronounced deliberately, eyes smirking where his whole demeanor turned frigid and ruthless, “the Winter Prince shows his true colors. How man nights, I wonder, have you dreamed of the revenge you would have on my people? How long have you contemplated the _justice_ you would seek for your brother’s rape and torture?”

            Matthew felt his blood turn to ice as the King leaned forward, almost towering over him.

            “How long has this secret, _bloodthirsty_ desire torn you apart?”

            He snarled, and lunged at the monarch, who smirked and caught the fist aimed at his face with little effort. He tsked lightly, mockingly, before pushing the younger away.

            “Assaulting a diplomatic envoy is no polite behavior for a prince,” the elder smirked.

            “You’re _provoking_ me,” Matthew choked out, rage still bubbling through his veins. He’d wager there was red outlining his irises.

            The other hummed, “I suppose I am,” but violet eyes watched him with an odd light in their depths, “but you wanted to scream at me anyways. You want to beat me bloody, to throw me from the clouds to never return. You want me as far away from your brother as possible. But that’s not going to happen.”

            There was a heavy silence between them now. Matthew had intended to bring the monarch down to level; to make sure the other didn’t do anything to degenerate his brother’s condition any further. But the other had _known_ of his intentions, almost seemed like he _approved_ of his intentions.

            But like _hell_ was the monarch about to let him intervene in whatever he’d had planned. And that didn’t sit well with the angel.

            “If you hurt him again,” he began, eyes fierce, “I’ll make you _wish_ Father had chosen trial and sentencing instead of negotiation.” The monarch chuckled.

            “We will see, little princeling. We will see.”

* * *

           He hummed softly to himself as he reclined in one of the plush armchairs within his guest suite. The candles had dimmed as time passed, and the shadows grew larger and larger as he remained still and contemplative. It didn’t bother him, of course; the darkness was peaceful and familiar to his tired eyes.

            Playing the villain had been easy to do, more so when Matthew Kirkland looked so much like his younger brother, but at the same time, so different. It was easy to loose a little of his power and aura to try and intimidate the prince heir, and completely worth it to find out that _wonderful_ bit of hidden information. It wouldn’t do for the world to know that the Angelic Heir-to-the-Throne was as bloodthirsty as some of their demonic counterparts. He was sure that if they did find out, they’d justify it easily: _oh, it’s in defense of his brother; it’s only expected, with his training; look, how honorable the prince is to seek justice_. But no one would ever forget it.

            A smirk quirked his lips, and he forced the thoughts of blackmail and mayhem away. It wouldn’t do to get in the castle’s disfavor anymore than he already was. No, best think of more interesting things. Such as the _other_ interesting bit of information he’d received from the prince heir tonight.

            _“You think this was my intention? That seeking forgiveness from your brother was at all a part of the negotiations I planned for?”_

            _“It was our Father’s intention, he admitted it to us this afternoon. But you’re going along with it, and that’s enough reason to be suspicious.”_

            Arthur Kirkland despised him. The green-eyed monarch loathed him with the voracious relentlessness of the sun’s fiery rage. If he died, Arthur Kirkland would throw a party in celebration. There were no words that could do justice in regards to how much the angelic monarch utterly reviled him.

            _So why the olive branch_ , he thought to himself silently. _Why start the process to better relations? Why give me unlimited access to Alfred?_ All the actions went contrary to the monarch’s rather obvious sentiments, and generated a powerful confusion in the violet-eyed King.

            _I’m missing something_ , he thought sourly. There was something in this equation that didn’t add up the way it was supposed to, and that meant that either he was missing one of the obvious outcomes, or there was a piece of the puzzle that he couldn’t see. He wouldn’t doubt Arthur to have some sort of hidden motivation in regards to their relations, but what about Alfred? Arthur looked like he would rather cheerfully rip his heart out and make him eat it before he died than allow him time and access to his youngest son.

            And yet, that was exactly what Arthur was allowing. And while both of the princes had known before he had, _he_ hadn’t known at all.

            Had Arthur intended for him to know?

            Hmm, that would be an interesting think to think on. But it was late, and he had to be up early for the morning meetings. He sighed and made for his bedroom, leaving the candles to burn themselves out overnight.

* * *

 

            He thought this would be scarier. That thought chased itself in circles around his head as he wandered silently into bedroom, with the door left open carelessly for curious night intruders to meander through. He shouldn’t even be within the suite, let alone the bedroom. Forget curiosity, this was a violation of privacy. Logically, he knew what he was doing was beyond stupid. It was insane, ridiculous, and reckless flavored with a desperation that almost no one would’ve noticed. But, for some reason beyond his comprehension, he’d been drawn here tonight.

            He wasn’t an idiot. No matter how arrogant or brash he’d acted – or could be at times – he wasn’t _truly_ stupid. And he was _aura sensitive_. No matter how hard Matthew would’ve tried, it was impossible to miss that Ivan had been waiting for them at the edge of the palace gardens earlier that night.

            _No, not waiting for **them** , waiting for **him**._

            He’d gone with Gilbert – who truly had startled him when he popped out from behind them, probably having stalked him into the maze the first time – to make the pillow forts in his brother’s rooms. They’d had a blast, too. It’d distracted him fairly easily, with the way they’d arrange the pillows _just so_ and weave sheets and other linens together to form towers and bridges and blockading structures…it’d been brilliant fun.

            Until Matthew walked in, pale as a ghost, but with an easy smile on his face. And Alfred had remembered exactly why Matt had wanted him to leave.

            It hadn’t left his mind since then. He’d fallen into a restless sleep in the confines of their pillow fort while Matthew and Gilbert left for their bed. He’d tossed and turned for over an hour before he woke with a jerk, unable to get back to sleep. So he’d stared at the ceiling for a bit, and pondered _things_ , until it hit him that Matthew’s suite was very close to that secret passage way into the Guest Wing of the palace…and what he could do with that information.

            And so, here he was, in the early hours afore dawn, wandering around in the suite of the being who’d raped and abused him for two years…he repeated that in his head one more time just to see if it sounded as insane to him the second time around.

            But it wasn’t _that_ scary here, he thought to himself, though that could be the palace’s doing. It’d always adored him. And in his sleep…he crept closer, peering at the night-washed vision of the sleeping monarch.

            In his sleep, he seemed so peaceful.

            The crease in his brow had smoothed over, and his signature creepy smirk or smile was missing from the pale face. With his eyes closed, he seemed almost serene; gentle, in some ways, and it made him _remember_ …

            _It was early. In fact, if Alfred had his way, it would be too early to even be called early at all. It should be considered the hour of the damned, with the ridiculous hour of the night that it was. But he was awake at this forsaken hour, and he had no idea what had woken him._

_He blinked his eyes open, and realized – a tad belatedly – that he was wrapped in a wonderful warmth that shielded him from the almost permanent chill of the castle. That in itself wasn’t strange; he was used to waking up with the monarch using him as a teddy bear, though Ivan had promised terrible, unspeakable things if he ever told a **soul** (cough, cough, Gilbert). What was strange was that his captor’s face was twisted in an almost pained expression. The heat radiating from the other male was unnaturally strong, especially since the monarch was prone to radiating **cold** on a daily basis. He squirmed in the embrace, felt the arms around him tighten reflexively before loosening almost automatically, and he knew something was wrong._

_Ivan never let go of him at night. Whether it was subconscious or intentional, the man always woke right before he was able to squirm free of the occasionally suffocating embrace. It wasn’t like he could escape either way – with magic suppressors on his wrist and a tracking spell on the collar he wore, even getting out of the bedroom without setting off a host of alarms would be impossible – but Ivan seemed to like keeping him in place, so he’d never said a thing (he kind of worried what would happen if he did)._

_But now, something was wrong, because he was able to slip out of Ivan’s embrace without an issue and without a fight. And Ivan never woke from it. Oddly concerned, despite himself, he reached out and shook the monarch’s shoulder, gently at first, and then with more vigor when it seemed he wouldn’t snap out of it._

_When he did snap out of it, Alfred found himself – predictably – pinned to the bed, wrist enclosed in a vice grip, and violet eyes studying him with a hint of confusion._

_After a moment’s contemplation – in complete silence, at that – the monarch released the angel and reclined on the bed, pulling the blue-eyed soldier into his arms once he’d resettled. A rough “Back to sleep,” was uttered, somehow not as harsh as it usually was when he’d found himself up before his captor, and the monarch curled him closer, almost gently._

_He knew nothing would change in the morning. He’d wake up, and the monarch would be gone, or getting ready to leave, and he would be dragged down to interrogation or left chained in the room to stew in his own thoughts. Sometimes it depended on the day, or the monarch’s mood. Though since Gilbert ascended, Ivan had been more and more reluctant to leave him in the hands of his interrogators, and did the job himself._

_(Alfred thought it was less that he didn’t trust his interrogators to do a good job, and more that Ivan’s possessive nature had noted and filed away all the lecherous looks he’d been given by all the interrogators that had ever had access to him (bar Gilbert, for a reason he now knew).)_

_As an arm pulled him even closer, almost melding him to the other’s chest, with his head tucked right in the hollow of the other’s chin, he could feel the monarch relaxing._

_And tasted **change** coming, though he couldn’t imagine how._

            Ivan stirred in his sleep and Alfred jolted from his memories, heart racing for the briefest moment until the monarch settled. Spinning, still light on his feet, he bolted from the room as discretely as he could.

            Missing the violet eyes watching his retreat with an intensity that would’ve shattered glass walls completely.

 


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...guess who makes a cameo in this chapter? I couldn't resist adding in a hint from another fandom - cookies to whoever guess it, but I did make it pretty easy :). Also, super sorry for taking so long - Chapter 4 is the longest chapter I've written, and that takes into account that Chapter 5 and Chapter 6 are already mostly completed.  
> So...ENJOY!

           A week passed and the residents of the palace – both temporary and permanent – had established an interesting form of routine. The peace talks continued, and no one outside the court knew of how stalled the monarchs were keeping them. Preparations for the spring equinox were underway, and even the demons were looking forward to participating in the celestial ceremony. Arthur secretly kept a guard tailing his youngest son, though, more often than not, they ended up losing him in the palace he knew far, far better than they did, and they kept coming to the king in tears. Matthew and Gilbert pushed Alfred to hang out more with his other friends – which he did, gleefully – and, _ahem_ , enjoyed their private time, all the time. Alfred – secretly – still ventured into the violet-eyed monarch’s chambers after the witching hour passed and observed the elder silently, seeking an answer only he knew he was looking for.

            And of course, Ivan watched Alfred, constantly. He had yet to approach the young prince, but said prince knew it would only be a temporary relief. To fulfill the bargain made between the monarchs, Ivan would have to spend time around the younger royal, and it was something Alfred wasn’t looking forward to.

            Unlike the angel currently sprinting his way, having just returned from a debriefing after a two yearlong absence from both the palace, and Alfred’s life. Alfred had quite a mouthful to give him, but he only turned and smiled as the other angel sprinted to catch up to him. The blond huffed as he caught his breath, and the prince waited patiently. Idly, he wondered how fast he’d been going if the elder blond was having issues keeping up with him. Finally, the other straightened with a faint grimace, and he could already see the elder blond adding more laps to his routine.

            “How are you, Ludwig?” he asked warmly, and Ludwig sent him a wry smile.

            “As well as one can be,” the soldier said, “We’re adjusting to a peacetime shift, while maintaining the forts along our border. But with the monarch and his envoy here within our walls, it’s unlikely that they’d do anything particularly drastic.” Alfred sighed.

            “I asked how _you_ are, Ludwig,” he elaborated wryly, “not your soldiers.” Ludwig sighed, but smiled.

            “You always do,” his brother-in-law’s little brother commented, “and I am as well as I always profess to be.”

            “Let’s pretend I believe you,” Alfred said dryly, “and walk with me, will you?” Ludwig glanced at him in askance, and he glared. It only made the usually stern angel laugh, and he sighed, glare slipping into a smile as he slid his arm into Ludwig’s and slowed his punishing pace to something far more leisurely.

            They walked around the farther reaches of the palace gardens, and the longer they walked, the more Alfred could feel his tense muscles relaxing. He wasn’t very surprised; Ludwig had always calmed him, even if he never said a thing.

            “I suppose,” Alfred began, “the good thing about ending the war is that I’ll see you around more often.”

            “Is that the only good thing you can think of?” Ludwig asked him sarcastically. He laughed, feeling the return of that well of joy, which had come earlier when he’d seen Ludwig first enter the palace after such a long absence.

            “You haven’t even been in this realm,” he said, hoping he wasn’t pouting as Matthew often accused him of, “and I have to sneak off to the human realm because Father won’t let me out of the clouds without an escort.” He scoffed, feeling the annoyance that came with his father’s overtly paranoid and overprotective attitude.

            “You can’t blame him, Alfred,” the other pointed out, “the last time you were in the human realm unescorted – that he knows about, at least – you were kidnapped by demons.”

            “I’ve been in the human realm _plenty_ of times by myself, I can handle it,” he protested, and _stars_ , he was whining. It felt good to whine to Ludwig again; at least the blond soldier always listened to him, unlike Mattie, who nodded like he was listening, but was actually have a dirty mental conversation with Gilbert (yes, that actually happened). They also _loved_ to commiserate over the fact that both of their brothers were major perverts and loved to traumatize them. That never got old.

            “Maybe I’ll convince the King to let me take you down for a day,” he said, and Alfred felt the warm smile that slipped on his face, “I can introduce you to these dogs I found…”

            Alfred laughed, “You and your dogs,” he said, “have you named them yet, Ludwig?” The other angel beamed.

            “Blackie, and Spot,” he pronounced proudly, practically cooing, and Alfred knew if any of the soldiers Ludwig commanded ever saw him like this, they’d be inundating the infirmary with heart-attack victims. “I helped settle them with a nice family, but they always come to visit when I dropped by.”

            “That’s sweet,” he said, “you haven’t changed much, have you?” Ludwig’s smile was far more wan this time around.

            “I suppose,” he conceded, but Alfred refused to let the soldier retreat.

            “I’ve missed you, you big softie,” he said softly, and he felt himself tilting his head to rest on the other’s shoulder. “You should’ve come over to visit when the ceasefire was called. Or even written me a letter or two beforehand,” fierce sky eyes pierced ice blue, “I was worried.”

            Ludwig’s eyes softened, “I missed you, too,” he said quietly. “I…I didn’t know if my words would be welcomed after – ”

            “Of course they would’ve,” the prince cut him off, a frown on his face, “just because those bastards fucked up our chances doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. You’re still my best friend.” The smile he received was radiant coming from the normally stoic angelic soldier.

            Thunder clapped around them just as Ludwig opened his mouth to respond, and they jerked in surprise – jerking apart in the process – looking up to ascertain the darkened sky for themselves.

            “A spring storm to bring in the equinox,” the prince hummed, surprised but no less pleased. “A symbol of good fortune. Father will be pleased, to say the least.” The soldier hummed in acknowledgement, studying darkened clouds for a moment before glancing over to his companion.

            “Perhaps we should head inside,” the taller angel suggested, and the prince hummed, “before the downpour catches us?” Sky eyes met iced ones with amusement.

            “Not keen on getting drenched?” the prince teased, and a smile flitted on Ludwig’s face for a brief moment before it was gone. He offered his arm to the younger angel.

            “Not quite,” he said wryly, “the human world is wet enough for me.” Alfred smiled and linked their arms again, beginning the trek back towards the palace, deviating around the main gardens and towards the ones that led to his own private balcony.

            “You know,” Ludwig said, and Alfred turned slightly to glance at him over his shoulder, “if you would’ve had me, I would’ve loved to have courted you.” He felt the weight of ice blue eyes watching him and felt his heart stutter.

            “I know you would’ve,” he whispered with a small smile, “and I would’ve loved to have you. But it’s not fair to you, and you know it.” Ludwig watched him for a minute, before conceding with a nod.

            “If he hurts you again, I will eviscerate him,” the slightly older angel intoned darkly, but quietly, so Alfred nearly didn’t hear him.

            “I think you’d have to get in line,” he murmured softly, side-eyeing the other, “Father’s called first dibs.” The other placed his free hand on his own and squeezed lightly.

            The world spun as they began to walk.

            No one knew why Gilbert had always been kind to him, despite the job he’d held. No one had ever understood the former Fallen’s deep affection, almost brotherly devotion, for the angel they’d captured. Ivan had always jealously guarded the angel for himself, but even he couldn’t begin to comprehend the level of fondness Gilbert had towards the youngest Prince of Heaven. Sometimes, they’d wondered if _Gilbert_ even knew what had caused that affection. Sometimes they were sure he didn’t.

            But Alfred had known. The original reason was standing right next to him.

 

            _“You’re pretty!”_ _a voice blurted out from behind him, and he dropped his ball, startled. He turned around and saw a young angel – maybe only a few years older than him – watching him, embarrassed by the way his thoughts spouted without a filter. The child prince smiled brightly at this new angel, not noticing the pale blush spreading on the other’s neck._

_“I’m a boy,” he asserted, used to courtiers and staff that didn’t know him mistaking his gender – why his father dressed him in smocks he’d never know – but firm about correcting the misconception, “Play with me?”_

_The other boy looked startled, and he thought back on what he’d said. Maybe he’d forgotten something – oh, yes, he’d forgotten to be polite! “Will you play with me, please?” There! Now father wouldn’t get on his case for being rude to other people…._

_“O-okay,” the other stuttered, flushed. “My name is Ludwig.” The prince beamed._

_“I’m Alfred!”_

_“Alfred!” said angel, with the appearance of a young teenager, spun around at the sound of his name, his entire demeanor brightening at the sight of who’d called for him._

_“Ludwig, you’re back!” he chirped, excited. They met in the middle of the maze path, and Alfred wrapped his arms around the taller angel, relaxing almost completely when he felt strong arms come around him in turn. “How was boot camp?”_

_“Taxing,” the older angel sighed as he released his younger companion, “but it will be worth it in the end, I hope.” The prince smiled brightly at the other blond._

_“It will,” he assured, “you’ll be a great soldier, Ludwig. The best there will ever be!”_

_“Ludwig!” an angry voice sounded down the hallway, and the angel in question turned reluctantly to meet furious sky-blue eyes as the prince stormed towards him. Having just come of age and attended his first Presentation, the youngest prince was a sight to see, even in half hazard disarray, as it seemed. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye,” the angelic teen growled. “You didn’t even tell me you were being deployed!”_

_“You’re being deployed as well,” he inserted, though he knew it wouldn’t help his case. The prince was almost seething. “You’re going down to the human realm, aren’t you?”_

_“Yes, I am,” the teen snapped, “but you’re going to the **border valley** fort, and you thought it was okay to leave without saying a word?! With their record of being attacked, I’ll be safer by far!” And you won’t be, was left unsaid. Alfred, for all that he could be brash and blunt to the point of rudeness, was incredibly well versed at what went unsaid._

_Ludwig felt any response get stuck in his throat. Alfred was glaring at him, practically daring to answer him in a way that wouldn’t piss him off further. He fingered the red and gold cloth he’d hidden in his pocket on a whim, not expecting to have the chance to ask…. So he knelt in front of his prince, who’d never demanded it of him before and who was watching him with surprised eyes, and withdrew a length of ruby red and gold accented cloth from his pocket. And he watched sky-eyes go wide as he grabbed a wrist and wrapped it twice with the length of cloth in his hand, wrapping it once around the palm of his own hand, before stopping any motion. He let the actions speak for themselves because **stars**_ **,** _he had no idea how to even **begin** to ask…._

_“Ludwig,” was said again, but this time it was almost a warble, barely audible, whispered into the small space they occupied, and begging elaboration._

_“I-I wanted to ask you when I got back,” he stuttered, “you Presented last week, and I wanted to ask you if you would allow me the honor of courting you?” Alfred was silent for a while. Alfred was **never** silent, and it was slowly driving Ludwig mad. He felt seconds stretch into hours, even though he knew it’d barely even been a minute since he’d asked. He didn’t dare look up, though he wanted to. This was Alfred’s decision, and he couldn’t sway that at all, not even through a look. He wouldn’t even if he could._

_But Alfred was silent. Silent until he hauled Ludwig up with his incredible strength and slanted his mouth against the taller blond soldier, and Ludwig felt all his tension and anxiety leave him._

_The kiss they shared was sweet and simple, an indication of the relationship they’d shared for centuries, but as it deepened and became more passionate, it represented more the promise of what was to come. Alfred broke it with a light smile playing on his lips. Ludwig took that opportunity to take the cloth – a sash with his family colors and his family crest – and wrap it gently, but snugly, on the prince’s trim waist, heart jumping._

_“Promise you’ll come back?” the golden prince insisted after Ludwig had finished. Ludwig threaded his hand through the prince’s and smiled._

_“Only if you do the same.” Alfred’s smile widened into a grin as he agreed. They separated that day, each to their own regiment and to their own assigned deployments._

_Ludwig returned from his deployment two months later to a silent, mourning palace. He wouldn’t see Alfred for another two years._

_The first day he’d met the young angel, he’d known that the soldier had been familiar to him. He – somehow – knew this golden-haired angel, who’d been unfortunate enough to earn Ivan’s personal attention._

_He didn’t realize how he knew the angel until he caught sight of the sash wrapped around the angel’s waist and realized that was his little brother’s crest._

_This was his brother’s intended. And as he watched Ivan wrap his aura around the unconscious angel, he mourned internally knowing that even if the teen somehow escaped back into the angelic realm, he’d never know peace. Ivan would never let him go, even if the angels won the war._

_And as he mourned, as he plotted – and did his job, regardless – he thought of the way his brother would react when his intended returned to the angelic realm. And felt a fierce protectiveness emerge from his very core._

_Ludwig was running as fast as he could despite being drenched and soaked from the rainstorm outside, stern and stoic demeanor be damned! Alfred was in the healer’s bay within the palace. After two tragically long years, he’d finally escaped from the demonic realm, and now he was **here**._

_But when he practically crashed into the infirmary, nearly tripping over one of the attendants in his haste, he met grieving sky-eyes and knew something had gone wrong._

_“Give us a minute alone,” the prince asked hoarsely after a minute of staring at each other, and the healers leapt up to protest until the King himself – who Ludwig hadn’t noticed until that moment – ushered them all out. Green eyes studied him, and for a brief moment, he felt all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on edge. And then the moment passed, and the King swept out of the infirmary with all the regal bearing of the royal born._

_“Alfred…” Ludwig began, striding towards his intended, hand reaching out to lace his fingers with the other’s, but stopped dead cold when Alfred flinched away from him. Instead, he took the King’s seat beside the bed, and met the other’s tired blue eyes head on._

_“Sorry,” the heartbroken word came from besides him, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, Ludwig,” and the prince’s hand shot out to entwine with his own, and the whole tragic story spilled from trembling lips. Every detail – even some his father didn’t know – spilled out like a dam breaking, and soon enough, Ludwig was holding a sobbing angel in his arms, feeling his own heart break and shatter, even as his hands stayed steady around his prince._

_They were no longer compatible as mates._

_**Sorry, I’m so sorry Ludwig**._

_He squeezed his eyes shut as he wrapped the younger angel in a hug and pretended – just for a moment – that everything he’d held dear in his life hadn’t come crashing down around him._

 

            The world centered and grounded him, and he could feel the heady magic of the equinox roiling around outside. His hand was still tucked into the crook of Ludwig’s arm as the other had insisted on escorting him inside. The equinox was the following night, and he had to be prepared for it.

            Thunder rolled and the sky opened up behind them, just as they’d stepped onto the covered veranda leading into his private chambers. They blinked in unison before laughing, glancing at each other and then at the veritable hurricane that had just begun. It just seemed so hysterical.

            He turned and placed a chaste kiss on Ludwig’s cheek, seeing the softness in blue eyes and knowing he was one of the few who would ever see it. And arm came to wrap around his waist after they’d disentangled from each other, and they stood for what felt like a timeless moment to watch the storm that’d been broiling for days finally boil over and erupt.

            “Thank you, Ludwig,” he said softly, watching the rain bounce off of the garden below, giving in an incandescent glow, “for everything.”

            The other blue-eyed blond smiled slowly, “Anything,” _Anything at all, for you_.

* * *

            About a week after the Equinox and the beautiful ceremony that had taken place, the palace and its inhabitants seemed to be gearing up towards another fantastic, elaborate event. Servants were hustling down the corridors – usually with something or the other in hand – filling the hallways with sounds of urgent conversations, hard labor, and excitement. The guards seemed to case through the palace, working double time to ensure its security. The bulkier ones, along with some of the newer guards were relegated under the head butler, who organized the new taskforce to help shuffle furniture and other such things that were harder for the slighter servants to carry across the palace. Courtiers, common citizens, and most angelic guests were in an uncommonly cheery mood. One older, particularly wizened angel had been seen randomly bursting into song, and when the catchy show-tunes she sang attracted other younger angels – including the servants – it started all out dances in the middle of the hallways.

            The Demonic Monarch and his envoy watched this parade of events with increasing levels of frazzled bewilderment. One particularly young demon had come up to the monarch – practically stuttering and completely frazzled – and requested that he take a day or two for himself after being finagled into three spontaneous dance-offs, wrangled into helping seven bulky, imposing castle guards cart furniture across three floors of the palace, and forced into helping five rather perky female angels choose an outfit for their Presentation – whatever that was.

            Ivan gave him a week.

            But within the week, the presence of the palace had once more been transformed. To the ignorant observer, it had happened practically overnight. The beautiful, serene seat of Royal Power had transformed into an almost sensual, inviting welcome that pulsed from the entire structure. The monarch – who’d watched the transformation over the course of the week – was still mildly awed at how swiftly the palace staff could work. The Spring Equinox had been a wonder to watch; something ethereal and beautiful in a way they could hardly define.

            This event – whatever it was – was far earthier; it was grounded in life and intimacy instead of celestial gaiety. It reminded him of the Mating Games they held down in his realm.

            The staff had – for once – eagerly ambushed the demonic envoy and dragged them all to the seamstresses for formal outfits for the night. Once they’d been fitted – and generally, traumatized – they’d been warned pointedly to _not enter_ the ballroom unless they were unmated, and only if they had good intentions, even then. It would be the height of scandal if they did so otherwise.

            It would be an enjoyable event, the monarch thought with a sigh, if they had any idea what the event was about. Anytime he or one of his envoy had made inquiries with the staff, they’d giggled (cackled, more like it) and usher them off to wherever they were supposed to be, saying it would be an interesting surprise. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was a long-planned conspiracy to embarrass them all at an event that seemed to be very important in angelic culture.

            Ivan snagged a passing courtier before she could rejoin the guests in the side hall. She looked at him curiously as he apologized briefly for his suddenness.

            “Do you know what this ball is for?” he inquired politely, and the caramel eyes watching him with wariness suddenly tinged with understanding mixed with relief. She chuckled a bit, and those watching the interaction – though there weren’t many – relaxed a bit at the sound.

            “Oh, it’s the biannual Presentation,” and he could hear the capital letter in that word. She eyed his look of confusion and decided to elaborate, “Twice a year, the palaces opens up to every mate-less angel in the city. Generally, every city holds one at different times of the year – twice a year – but the Spring Palace, as the seat of the Royal Family during the spring and summer months, hosts one Presentation following the spring equinox. Since it symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings, it also acts as the commencement for the Season.”

            “The Season?” he inquired, puzzled. Some of the other demons nearby gathered around to hear the explanation, and he figured it must’ve been something culture-specific if his entire envoy was having a hard time understanding the events. She smiled a bit, even with the interruption, but another angel moved closer to her and took over the explanation.

            “The Season is just what it sounds like,” the pale-eyed blond shrugged with a smile, “The spring is a time for mating, and all that entails, and the Season here mirrors that. With the opening of the Season, angels can begin Courting, which is like a dating process – as humans call it – the process of getting to know one another, or earning another angel’s favor. Later, after the second Presentation, held at the Winter Palace for the autumnal equinox, the Engagement and Bonding season begins.”

            “Bonding can happen at any time of the year,” the female angel from earlier jumped back in, startling some of the demons listening, “but for those who started Courting in the Spring, it’s polite to wait at least until after the second Presentation to get engaged. It gives the couple a minimum time to get to know each other, so there’s no pushing people into rushed or forced bondings.” She shivered, along with many of the angels hanging around.

            “Can you imagine how bad that would be?” a blue-eyed angel listening in on the side commented under his breath, but all of them heard it.

            “Remember four years ago?” another commented, though they couldn’t seem to identify whom it was. Every angel in eavesdropping vicinity paled and shivered.

            “I was at Presentation that year,” the pale-eyed blond commented, eyes glossy in remembrance as he shivered, “the poor prince, and so soon after his return….” Another angel shook her head.

            “Some people are just awful,” she said, fire in her austere orbs, and many of the demons exchanged confused looks.

            “I didn’t see the royals in the ballroom, though,” one demon commented off to his side, drawing attention away from what seemed to be a sensitive topic, and some of the angels scoffed despite their semi-obvious relief. A green-eyed brunet stepped forwards, long hair swaying.

            “Of course they’re not,” he said, amused, “His Highness and Prince Matthew are mated, it would be poor form for them to be amongst the mate-less in the ballroom.”

            “And Prince Alfred?” his advisor – Yao – asked, curious. The angels quieted for a moment, glancing at each other uncertainly.

            “Well,” the green-eyed angel – who seemed to have been elected as general spokesperson – said hesitantly, “he hasn’t come to them since the incident four years ago. And he’d only just come of age the year before his kidnapping, so he wasn’t a common sight even then. Prince Matthew attended them until he mated Lord Beilschmidt. But…”

            Another angel – a blue-eyed redhead this time – stepped up and put a hand on his shoulder sympathetically when he seemed to lose his words. He looked up and eyed them all fiercely, distrustfully, and said bluntly, “The King forbid his attendance at the Presentations after he the incident. And really, it’s no wonder as to why. After some bastard tried to force a bond while the prince was in recovery…well, they had to reconstruct the western wing of the Winter Palace. Kid’s magic just exploded,” the angel shuddered lightly, “I’ve never seen anything like it before. King Arthur was _livid_. He hasn’t been allowed back since, and everyone knows how protective the King is of Prince Alfred, so no one really questions it.”

            “It’s still sad, though,” an angel piped up from the side, a petite thing, with starry gray eyes, and pale blonde hair. She smiled absently, expression sad despite itself, “He must be terribly lonely having to wait for his mate for so long.” All the demons blinked, and the angels smiled at the strange statement.

            “As you say, Luna,” a honey-eyed ginger said, eyeing the demons wearily, before linking arms with the longhaired brunet, and sashaying away from the ballroom entrance into a quieter, but more elegant looking hall for the mated parents and observers to mingle.

            The monarch hummed a bit as the angels moved away into the elegant hall, contemplating the information he’d received. It must’ve been common knowledge for the angels to part with it so easily. For all the distrust and wariness angels often held for demon-kind, they were quick to share gossip. His demons followed their angelic counterparts into the hall, and he could barely catch sight of the elder Prince and his mate making rounds around the room, greeting people.

            The King wasn’t there. Neither, it seemed, was Alfred. He caught sight of the flowers lining the room, glowing in the candlelight, and the beginnings of an idea formed in his head.

            _Hmm, that could work_. He smirked.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS FINALLY DONE! Oh, Lord, this was a monster chapter! It's nearly 7k long, and I'm soooooo happy it's done! I wouldn't get your hopes up so quickly for Chapter 6 anytime soon, though, I haven't really decided where that one's gonna go. But, fingers crossed, I will finish it soon :)
> 
> Anyways, this one begins to escalate the plot a bit more, and I think it'll move up to an E rating at some point within the next few chapters. Nothing too explicit, as some of you who've read Good For You can attest to, I have issues when trying writing graphic erotica, but it'll be up there.
> 
> Also, for the courtship, I'm putting up the link for the flower meanings that I'm using! Enjoy darlings, and remember that an author thrives on happy feedback (and critical ones, too).
> 
> http://www.aboutflowers.com/images/stories/Florist/languageofflowers-flowerdictionary.pdf

**Chapter 5** :

            Sneaking around the palace in the dead of the night – especially when the palace didn’t like him and he knew it – was not the best idea he’d ever had. Unlike the sky-eyed prince – whose light step and sharp mind meant he was almost invisible if he wanted to be – while he could often move swiftly and unseen through the shadows, he shone like a beacon in the midnight darkness as he tripped over stray vines, upraised tiles, and trick steps.

            This palace certainly didn’t like him, and it was making that blatantly clear.

            The surprise came when he finally found his way past wary guards outside the prince’s rooms – guards he would swear were only there at night, and almost positive that Alfred had no idea they were there – and into the living area of the suite, he felt the oppressive presence of the palace fade away, and the area warm around him comfortably.

            _Wha – oh_.

            Alfred had just come out from the bedroom, wide-awake and alert, but not facing him as he moved to close the door silently, knowing any movement might alert guards his father had sneakily assigned him.

            He swore silently before he dove behind a lounge couch close by, though certainly not far enough from Alfred. He froze as the teen whirled around, startled, but the younger’s expression seemed to twist in confusion when he sensed and saw no one there. Ivan had never been so relieved he’d always been able to hide his aura instinctively, and how hard it made it on even the aura sensitive to know when he was nearby. He relaxed minutely as Alfred seemed to relax and started to turn away. He slumped backwards when Alfred moved away from him, right into a vase-topped pedestal.

            The crash from the vase as it toppled onto practically the only rug-less spot on the marble flooring could’ve woken the dead. It certainly woke the wary guards to attention outside, and they burst through the door just as Alfred whirled around to stare at the toppled vase.

            “Your highness,” one of the guards exclaimed, bright eyes worried and wary as his companion scanned the darkened room, “are you alright? We heard a crash?”

            “Yes,” the prince murmured softly, eyes still staring at the fallen vase, only inches away from Ivan himself, “I’m fine. I was just getting a bit restless, I must’ve knocked it over in the dark.”

            The guards gave Alfred the same disbelieving stare that Ivan was giving him – only Alfred couldn’t see Ivan (at least, Ivan hoped he couldn’t) – but eventually, after being assured several times that he was alright, they exited the room, one of them taking off to – presumably – report to the king of the minor disturbance.

            The moment the doors had closed and the footsteps were a decent distance away, a line of shinning, glimmering, _deadly_ needles scored the rug-covered ground barely an inch from where he was hiding. He swore as the candles around the room lit in one swift gesture, and sunk into the shadows as the palace warmed around him dangerously.

            Alfred knew someone was there.

            “Come out,” the prince barked, “Out, or I’ll call the guards back in, and _they_ will deal with you instead of me.” Ivan’s eyes darkened as he slipped into the little shadows clinging to the walls, right behind the prince.

            _Come out, should I? Alright then, little princeling_. He stepped out right behind the prince, and forced the lit candles to extinguish with his magic. He reached out and hooked an arm around the prince, covering his mouth so the younger royal couldn’t call for the guards.

            “Mmph!” came from the prince, and he tightened his grip when he felt teeth clamp down on the flesh of his palm in a vicious bite. But this was far from the first time he’d held the struggling prince like this, and he was used to the little ‘battle wounds’ he’d acquire, elbow to the stomach and the dagger skimming his arm included. It was entirely worth it when he hefted the prince up so kicking feet left the ground – though that left his shins a little bruised, and he narrowly avoided a debilitating hit to a very sensitive and well treasured area – and shifted the blue-eyed angel into a bridal carry, which was when said angel froze upon seeing his assailant.

            Of course, a split second later the struggles resumed stronger than ever, and Ivan nearly lost his grip more than once on the squirming prince. Finally, after dragging the teen through an adjoining door into a more private living space that was, presumably, connected to the teen’s bedroom.

            “If you swear not to scream,” he began, voice low as he leaned over the younger, “or do _anything_ that would alert the guards, I’ll let you go and drop you on the couch.”

            The squirming stopped, and a golden brow rose in question.

            “If you _don’t_ ,” he continued, a glint emerging in his eyes, “then I’ll knock you out, do what I came here to do, drop you on the couch in _my room_ , and have you try to explain to your father why you’re in and out of my room – of your own free will, at that – every night since I’ve been here.”

            He wasn’t shamed to admit that the horror in the angel’s eyes was incredibly satisfying. So was the embarrassed flush that was creeping up his cheeks, which was more than _just_ satisfying. But there was a reluctant nod, and he released the teen, setting him gently on the couch. The younger gave him an odd look, but settled more comfortably on the couch once the elder had let him go, watching with as the monarch leaned against the wall next to the arm of the couch he was sitting on.

            “What are you doing in my room?” he asked softly, careful to keep his voice down; the monarch never made empty threats. Ivan raised a brow, curious.

            “Nothing that really concerns you,” he replied gently, almost smiling as the angel scoffed; he knew the younger would never believe that – hell, he didn’t believe it.

            “You’re in _my room_ ,” he said, raising a brow at the elder, “by default, that means you’re here about _me_.” A very self-centered perspective, but true nonetheless; the monarch was here for something he believed the prince had, but that didn’t mean the prince had to know.

            “And you’re acting quite peculiarly, aren’t you,” he nearly purred, and the teenage royal stiffened at the tone, “does that mean there’s something you don’t want me to see?” For a split-second there was an incredulous silence.

            And then, “Are you an IDIOT?!” was hissed at him, the volume moderation hinting that the teen had nearly forgotten their deal to remain quiet lest Ivan take advantage of the situation he’d found the teen in. And once more, “There’re things in my room I don’t want my _father_ to see, let alone _you_.” The ‘ _you_ ’ had been spat at him, not that the other blamed him much for his tone, but the smile – childlike, just shy of insane, and utterly terrifying if the pallor of the other’s face meant anything – said it all. He would _not_ be spoken to like that by the little brat that was his former captive, even if said little brat was a prince.

            “You’re not panicking or fleeing in the opposite direction,” Ivan pointed out casually, smile vanishing into a more amiable look, noting the way the angel twitched at the description, “excuse me if I find the change in behavior interesting.”

            “Blame that on the shock,” the prince grumbled, his face regaining a bit of color as he settled back into the couch, and Ivan raised a brow, “I wasn’t expecting to actually _see_ you. Father’s overprotective, I wasn’t expecting to meet you until the official introduction.”

            “That’s a rather naïve way of thinking,” he countered, amused, “You knew about my being here, you should’ve known I would’ve run across you at some point.” He paused and a smile spread on his face that he knew was unnerving his companion, “Not to mention how you’ve been sneaking into my room every night and watching me when you thought I was asleep.”

            The prince froze and flushed, having forgotten that the other had brought it up, and Ivan felt his smirk curl and become far more pronounced as he leaned over the sprawled form on the couch. He felt like laughing as the other shrunk away from him, instead, tangling a hand in those golden locks.

            “Be at ease,” he chuckled, ignoring the fiery glare he was given, “I will not mention it to anyone, unless you give me reason to.” He moved away and settled into a seat near the other, “though I _am_ curious as to your reasoning.”

            The prince was silent for a few minutes, just observing him. “You don’t seem as bad now, not as you were, then…” Ivan sighed at the soft-spoken words.

            “You were my prisoner,” he pointed out, watching the golden-haired angel’s carefully neutral expression, “There is a certain freedom we have in the way we treat our prisoners that we cannot have in our everyday interactions. You were not a prince, then, not to me or to my people. You were just another angel we’d taken captive, only there was something about you that drew my attention, and, well…” he shrugged, certain the angel wouldn’t want him to go into those years again, and settled comfortably in the chair.

            “Now, you’re sitting across from me as a prince, and your father is the monarch I’ve come to negotiate with,” he commented, watching the teen shift, “I cannot afford to act as I have with you before.” There was a pause, before Ivan leant forward and deliberately caught the younger’s eye, “Unless you would prefer it?”

            The teen went white and glared. He laughed, but the wicked intent had not faded from his eyes as he conceded to the angel’s answer, reclining in his chair.

            “ _Leave_ ,” the teen hissed, almost inaudibly, and he stood still laughing. He leaned in close, and the teen reared back at the swift, unexpected action, bumping his head against the back of the couch. He smiled and the teen shivered.

            “Of course, little princeling,” he breathed, threading a hand through golden hair, before trailing fingers lightly down to his neck, taking in the way blue eyes widened and lips parted in protest, before pressing down on a pressure point and watching the teen slump into unconsciousness. He stayed a moment more in that position, his hand brushing the soft cheek gently before curling into wheat locks.

            He sighed and stood, lifting the teenager into his arms and making his way into the younger angel’s bedroom: his original destination. Stripping the teen of his boots and his outerwear, he pulled back the covers and wrapped them tightly around the young angel, feeling the odd sense of domesticity that tugged at him when he did so. Stepping back, he straightened and sent out a cautious pulse of his aura, searching for anything within the younger’s chambers with his energy signature on it. Feeling nothing, he frowned and did it again, a little stronger this time, though not strong enough that the guards outside would feel it, even if one of them might’ve been aura sensitive.

            The unconscious prince stirred at the heavy aura, and he abruptly withdrew his presence, eyes refocusing on the teen before him.

            He doubted he would ever be able to treat the angel like he had before – not that he would want to - but with a few cautious inquiries, a judicious use of his funds, and a lot of sneaky maneuvering…he might still have the teen at the end of it all.

            Anything else would be unacceptable.

* * *

            He woke with a jolt just before the first rays of dawn peaked through the cloud cover. He bolted upright, a gasp jerking itself from his lips as he scanned his gray-toned room in the pre-dawn light. Seeing nothing unfamiliar, he slowly relaxed into the soft sheets, uncurling the fist he’d tightened around his down comforter when he’d first broke into awareness.

            He shifted slightly, before leaping out of bed – half stumbling, half-tripping over the boots that’d been carelessly discarded by his bedside– and studying his clothes; clothes that were definitely not his night clothes.

            _Oh_ , he thought dizzily, _that happened_.

            So much for being one of the best in stealth; Ivan had known he’d been in that room from the first day he’d gone. He sighed and sunk against the door in tired frustration, head bowed, resting against his knees. But as he did, a flash of soft violet caught his attention.

            He jerked his head, startled, towards the nightstand beside his bed. On the side where he often slept, there was a vase that hadn’t been there when he’d left his room this morning. Within it, practically glowing bathed in the rising morning sunlight, was a bouquet of flowers. Stunning purple hydrangeas were arranged interspersed with sprigs of baby’s breath, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

            He could remember so many years ago, when his mother still walked amongst them, that she had taken him down to the garden one day. She had held him close in her arms, eyes and hands gentle as she took one of his hands in one of hers and reached for the flowers that grew amongst them. She’d taught him the names and meanings of every flower and every fruit that could be found within the palace garden. She’d have him recite them whenever they went, or turn it into a game to see how much he would remember.

            It had been their special time together. She’d known then, even so young, that he was the one who would be courted, rather than perform the courting. She taught him much of what she herself had been taught, to give him the edge on his suitors. A prince was quite the prize, and she – from whom he’d inherited his stubborn will; his unquenchable fire – was determined that no one could ever make the choice for him.

            In the end, her lessons had been in vain; the decision had been taken from him. But he knew what they said, the flowers on his bedside table.

            _Forgive me, but I shall always love you_

            He lost himself in the garden all day, trying to push the last 24 hours from his mind. He evaded his father’s summons, his brother’s determination to find him, and Gilbert’s overprotective tendencies; there was no one who knew the garden better than he, and he used that to his advantage.

            That night, he didn’t visit the monarch’s room. He watched the rain fall from night-dark skies; lightning lighting up his form as he curled against the windowsill, resting his head on the glass as the skies cried, and thought of blue eyes, strong arms, and of the last time he’d seen the skies weep so unbearably.

            He wished he could join them.

* * *

            He never told anyone of it; never spoke a word of it, but the thought of what could’ve been made him shiver in the dead of the night. Being clipped was one of the worst punishments there ever was, and amongst the most humiliating; for a being of the sky like him, it was inconceivable. Even contemplating the idea drove his mind ragged with horror that plagued him for weeks after the mention came up. Others might’ve borne the humiliation – the deprivation – better than he – flight feathers grew back for them, unlike their avian counterparts – but he wouldn’t have borne it at all.

            He would sooner slit his own throat than suffer forcibly clipped wings.

            He nearly did, too. All the angels that the demons ever caught had their wings clipped. Every. Single. One. It turned into a spectacle for the demonic court, and he remembered – oh, how he _remembered_ – being collared and chained at the King’s side and watching his people – his _kin_ – being forced forwards, held down, and having their wings forcibly deployed and clipped in front of the entire court. He’d watched faces he knew – who knew him, who cared for him, who cried in fury and in terrible sadness when they saw him bound and helpless at the mercy of their implacable enemy, knowing who he was – break in agony, in humiliation, and in grief as their flight was stripped from them. The court would laugh merrily; some would smirk and taunt the captives while the guards held down the other angels to prevent them from responding to their fellows’ grief.

            Even when an angel would impale themselves on a guard’s sword, or slit their throat with a sharp edge, or even bite through their own veins to get away from the reality of being forcibly grounded, the court would laugh. He mourned for those who did – he knew as well as the others that those angels would never live through their wounds, their very souls had fled – and knew that if Ivan ever found a way to deploy his wings, he would’ve been one of those desperate few.

            Growing flight feathers only took two years, but even a second would’ve been too much, as connected to the sky as he was. And no angel – save himself – had ever survived more than a year in captivity.

            He had been the only exception, and never before had he been so grateful to his father’s paranoia and powerful magic; his father had placed a spell – an unbreakable spell to all save himself – which would prevent his wings from deploying unless he permitted it. He had been injured during the fight in the human realm, before he’d lost consciousness and been taken captive. And in the process of fighting off unconsciousness, his wings had sealed themselves away for protection, even injured as they were.

            They had healed, even sealed away, and Ivan had never been able to clip him. It had been one of the only reasons he’d escaped successfully where so many before him perished in the attempt.

            Sometimes, he wondered why the monarch had never forced the issue; never wrenched the spell from his body – regardless of the injury it would’ve dealt to him – and forced his wings to deploy, so he may deal him what would be, indirectly, a mortal blow.

            Sometimes he thinks that Ivan had known that.

            His father and brother sometimes wondered why he didn’t seem more affected by the rape and torture than he was. They often thought he was concealing his feelings, not wanting to burden them, and in some ways, they were right. He never wanted to remember the way Ivan had taken him – liberated him of his chastity and his choice all at once – even though now, with the other initiating the courting process, those thought appeared often in the forefront of his mind. He’d never be able to forget the demon’s touch, or the interrogations – broken bones, broken heart, but never a broken spirit – and to this day, they gave him night terrors that could wake his entire wing of the palace.

            But every time he remembered that cruel, soft touch, or those broken bones and bleeding bruises, he remembered those faces twisted in agony and grief, and the faces he saw himself in when they were denied the sky, and so seized their life instead.

            He remembered, and as he stared out his window, contemplating the meaning of the bouquet in his room, he knew that things could be so much worse.

            Though he doubted he would ever tell anyone that.

* * *

            Come morning, he felt like he hadn’t slept at all. He hadn’t dared venture into the depths of his bedroom, where the bouquet lay, during the night. It’s meaning tormented him, and he could not put it aside. He feared that had he slept besides the first offering, it would’ve been taken as acceptance. And he knew the other would’ve known had he done so.

            He sighed as he moved towards his vanity, grimacing lightly at what he knew he would have to do today. He tugged on the rope – one he’d used rarely, if that – which would call his personal attendant to his room. He would need the aid today.

            When the door was pushed open, his mother’s former attendant smiled gently at him. After a hesitant explanation, wide eyes, and a concerned look or two, the other male gestured for the prince to take a seat in front of the vanity mirror and took up the brush. Gently, the elder angel began the process of braiding the topmost wheat locks into a golden crown of hair. His eyes slipped shut as he felt the soothing, repetitive motions, taking the little peace he was offered before his day would be shot to hell.

            There was a slight pause, before his attendant began weaving boughs of candytufts and cherry blossoms into the golden braid crown. In no time at all, a soft flower crown had come to rest atop the prince’s golden head, woven delicately into the rich locks. He blinked at himself in the vanity mirror, hesitantly raising a hand to touch the softly colored flowers, smoothing his fingers over the petals. They were beautiful flowers, despite the meaning he had chosen them for.

            _I am indifferent to you. Your intentions are impermanent._

            He wondered idly, as his attendant slipped into his room to select an outfit, if his father would be the one who reacted first or his suitor. Using flower language had gone out of style during the time of his parents’ courtship, but his father knew the language well; it had been how he’d wooed their mother. He knew the court would gossip; how could they not? It would be the first time he’d been presented a suit directly since Ludwig, not through his father’s or the court’s intervention. And thus, it would be the first time he would truly respond.

            _They’ve become far too used to the obedient, victimized little prince_ , he thought with a wry smile. At least the courtship offer was good for something. He felt a smile curving his lips as he straightened the tunic he’d been given to wear, noting the distinctive sky-blue and gold shimmer of the sash amongst the pale cream of his tunic: his family’s royal colors; the symbol of a courtship that he’d not yet accepted.

            Subtlety was far more his brother’s tool of trade – both an effective weapon of the Crown Prince and Heir Apparent to the Angelic Throne, as well as a means of expressing contrary opinions when he didn’t want to reveal conflict within the family to the court (the latter of which was something Alfred himself had never been very good at doing) – but nothing prevented the usually outspoken, and fiercely opinionated angel from wielding it as efficiently as he did his weapons. And he did so: conservatively, but unmistakably; as if it were the slightest whisper of steel in the air – audible only to those who knew to listen for it – and yet as blatant as the glimmer of silver against the night sky.

            _Let’s give them a show, Mother_ , he though, his mischievous smile a perfect mirror of his beloved mother’s – though he knew it not – reflecting on the consequences of his actions, and how far they would spread. Who knew, he mused idly, maybe he’d be able to meet those violet eyes today; he’d love nothing more than to watch them darken in rage, knowing the other would be able to do nothing about his actions without giving himself away. And if he gave himself away before the prince accepted his interest, Alfred had every right to demand he stop the courting.

            That was something he knew the monarch was not willing to risk.

            “My prince,” a servant’s voice caught his attention, barely a corridor away from his room, and he turned to see a panting angel come to a stop several feet behind him. “Your Highness,” he said when he’d caught his breath, “His Majesty has requested your presence in the white jasmine hall.” Message delivered, he looked up and gaped when he caught sight of the flowers adorning the Prince’s hair and the sash draped around his waist. Alfred felt his lips twitch into a smirk at the reaction as he thanked the messenger and went on his way.

            He could practically hear the gossip that was about to be spread.

            _Someone was courting the Prince_.

            The walk was short, and his father heard him coming before he saw him, obviously. There was no reason for the way the “Oh, Alfred, there you ar—“ to have been cut off like that otherwise. His father stared at him, slack jawed for nearly a minute. Emerald eyes took in the braided flower crown woven into his hair, the stubborn tilt to his chin, the sash wrapped around his waist, and the look in his eyes. “Every time I seem to forget,” he murmured wryly, collecting himself, “you give me more proof you’re your mother’s son.” He shook his head. “I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard.” Almost, but not quite, judging by the look of malicious glee. He was damned sure his father knew who’d started courting him.

            By virtue of his father’s unusual behavior, they’d attracted the attention of all of the courtiers within the hall. And while flower language wasn’t a very popular way of communicating amongst his generation, those of his father’s court were of a generation where it had been exceedingly common.

            So, essentially, everyone present knew exactly what he was trying to convey to his new suitor. Many choked on air – or in the case of one particularly startled angel, on a cluster of grapes he’d practically inhaled in shock – while others looked utterly stunned. Some looked curious at who’d had the gall to go behind the monarch’s back and begin courting his only unmated son, and at the prince’s rather insistent message to the contrary.

            One particularly ancient angel – sitting all the way in the back of the hall – cackled at the sight, “Oh, this is going to be _fun_!” Which startled all the other council members out of their shocked positions, and a roar of chaos built up within the meeting room.

            “ _That_ is not an appropriate response for a suitor, your Highness,” one of the nobles snapped, voice rising above the rest, almost glaring at the stubborn prince as he stood before them. Said prince raised a brow, plucking a candytuft gently from his crown and twirling it in his hand as the voices of the rest of the council died down to listen. The pointed insinuation made several of the nobles flush indignantly, and several others conceal smirks. King Arthur himself watched the entire spectacle with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

            “Isn’t it _my_ response the suitor is asking for?” Alfred asked, unfazed. The older angel who’d snapped at him flushed in annoyance, as there was a general murmur of assent amongst the court.

            “I think,” started one of the older members of court, with laughter lines set in his face and a fond smile on his lips, “what some of our brasher comrades are asking is, what did this poor sod do to get a response like _that_?” The angel who’d snapped flushed even deeper at the implicit insult but didn’t dare say a word.

            The prince smiled at the old angel, but responded firmly, “What happened remains between the two of us. Until his actions match his words, my response will remain the same.” The older angel hummed, curious no doubt, but without questioning him further as the others buzzed with the knowledge he’d given them. He swore he could see a glint of approval in his father’s eyes.

            “The full council is dismissed,” his father announced, waving away the multitude of protests that emerged in wake of his decision. “Advisors are allowed to remain if they so wish, but only if they have something they believe they might be able to contribute. We can have this discussion at another time.” Green eyes studied him with a smirk in their depths. “My son’s courting process is an urgent matter, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?”

            The grumbles and protests died down reluctantly, but nods went all around the room. Alfred felt a smirk curl on his own lips at the way his father could so easily handle the manipulative court. Soon, there was only his father, some of the advisors, a few of the royal guard, and he himself within the hall. All of the attention turned to him, and he withheld the desire to fidget under the speculation. His father hummed.

            “Well, first thing first, we have to find you an attaché, and perhaps a guard as well…” And so it began.

* * *

            The palace was _buzzing_. Servants were flitting from place to place, always stopping to accost another of their number, whispering just to be sure – _did you know…?_ Guards marched professionally along the corridors, but the moment they reached a fellow guard or servant, they bent their heads, exchanging greetings, but more – _you’ll never **believe** what I just heard…._ Guests whirled around palace hallways, their excitement and elation was far more subtle, but at the same time, far more visible – _I saw it, it’s **true** …!_

The violet-eyed monarch observed all the commotion with a façade of curious bewilderment and – to their credit – several of his advisors mimicked the careful nonchalance even though their constant frustrated glances his way made him well aware they knew he’d done something they wouldn’t quite like. He felt a smirk flit briefly upon his lips before he banished it. He didn’t want to tip them off quite yet to what he’d done.

            It was at that moment, though, that Alfred came around the corridor arm in arm with Ludwig as he chatted happily. The soft blue sash seemed to glow and clash against the white of his tunic, and all those in the hallway seemed to freeze and collectively inhaled as they noted it. The hold Ludwig had on Alfred’s arm was distinctly not the hold of a courting couple, and everyone who was _anyone_ remembered that they had courted before the prince’s kidnapping only to be unable to bond later on, so no one misunderstood; Ludwig was there for the prince’s protection.

            Which meant the rumors were true; _someone was courting the prince_.

            And judging by the colors of the sash – blue like the sky, embroidered with the royal family’s personal crest in gold instead of the formal one – said prince was _not happy_.

            Though Ivan wondered if that would truly matter in the end; after all, it was as much Arthur’s decision as it was his son’s, being of the royal family as they were. Many his advisors, meanwhile, seemed to slump in on themselves in shock, before Yao – who held the quickest mind of all of them – turned to him with a truly _burning_ glare, knowledge glowing in his eyes.

            The prince and his escort – for that was obviously what Ludwig was, for the time being at the very least – passed through the hallways, conversing with each other and ignoring all the commotion in the hallways that they were leaving behind them. It was only once they’d turned the corner, and their footsteps faded away into the distance, that the hustle and bustle of the corridor resumed at twice the energy of before. Squeals, excited chatter, and curious words were exchanged throughout the hallway, and it left most of the demons – many of whom, despite sharing a multitude of customs and traditions with the angels, had only the vaguest idea of what had just happened – baffled.

            Except for Yao and Ivan, the former of whom was piercing the latter with a truly vicious glare that spoke of an unpleasant conversation to be had later on.

* * *

            It was the raised voices that caught his attention, far before he recognized who was speaking. He’d been evading the guard who’d replaced Ludwig when the other had been summoned somewhere else, urgently. He knew his father wouldn’t be pleased, but it had barely been a day and the surveillance was already driving him crazy.

            The voices taunted him – soft in the distance and familiar, but not loud enough to recognize – and he drew closer until he recognized the hissed voice chiding another furiously.

            “What in the realms were you _thinking_ , Sire?!”

            Yao. Which meant the other voice could only possibly be…

            “In what regards?” the cold, smooth voice of the demonic monarch rolled over him, and he sunk behind the nearest pillar as he heard the voices coming closer.

            “You’re _courting_ him,” was snarled at the monarch in a way that would’ve lost anyone else their head, “You held him captive for _years_ , and we’re only lucky that so few of the court are aware. This can expose _everything_.”

            “It will not,” the monarch’s voice was strong, reassuring, “I have considered this since I realized who he was. And it suits the precautions I have taken.” There was an odd smile in the other’s voice that made him shiver, even hidden as he was.

            “Precautions that have _failed_! He had enough information that we lost the war,” he could imagine Yao’s dark eyes practically spitting in fury, “He _knew_ you, knew what you would do; knew you enough that he was able to plan _around_ you and flee.”

            “My precautions have not failed yet,” was asserted fluidly, and Alfred had to bite his lip when he recognized the familiar tone, and remembered where he’d heard this discussion before.

            _“The angels are practically knocking on our doors!”_ _a voice shouted hysterically from the antechamber and Alfred stirred, ears perking up as words floated into his sleepy mind. Distantly, he realized that Ivan wasn’t with him, and there were a group of demons in the foyer of the monarch’s suite. Their auras – irate and panicky – tickled at his senses and tugged at his consciousness. “We have to do **something**!”_

_“We have been able to keep the angels from breaching the realm,” Ivan’s voice, smooth as silk and as frigid as a glacier, wrapped over him as he spoke, icily, “But it is a near thing. It should not be. Explain this to me.” His voice had lowered dangerously, and Alfred could practically feel the other demons shudder in terror. Very few people could restrain their instinctive reactions around the demonic monarch._

_“They’ve been growing increasingly vicious as time passes,” a soothing, silky voice commented idly, and the angel recognized it as Yao, Ivan’s primary advisor. “We haven’t quite discerned the reason behind it, but some of their actions are quite…telling.”_

_“Oh?” the monarch inquired, and Yao hummed._

_“One of the angels that I had the fortune of encountering mentioned your young captive, sire.”_

_“Oh?” and this time it sounded far more dangerous; almost like a subtle threat should the other demon not treat his words with care._

_“Yes,” Yao confirmed, “It seems whoever he is, he is very important to those in charge. It’s only a shame Gilbert couldn’t get the answer out of him before he ascended.” Dead silence rang and he could actually feel the tension in the room escalate without actually being in the same room. No one mentioned the former Fallen’s ascension. EVER._

_“We have to consider,” another spoke hesitantly, “that they might breach the realm and recover the angel. We must take precautions.”_

_“And do you think I have not?” Ivan interrupted abruptly, and though he wasn’t in the same room, it didn’t mean he couldn’t picture the utterly menacing expression the monarch must’ve been wearing for the other’s aura to flood the entire suite so imposingly._

_“I only meant to say,” the other backtracked quickly, voice trembling, “that we must have a safeguard. He knows too much of our movements and our mindset, more than would’ve been permissible had he been anyone else.” Alfred flinched at the words; if the monarch hadn’t taken an interest in him, anyone else with his knowledge would’ve been killed by now, if only to protect demonic secrets._

_“It matters not if they retrieve him,” the monarch interrupted once more, but the undertone was far from unpleasant; in fact, if Alfred had to put a name to it, he would say it was almost **triumphant** , and wasn’t that disturbing. Ivan went on, “Do you think I have not considered this? I have put in precautionary measures from the very beginning. Even if he finds a way back to the angelic realm, he will never be able to escape me,” he could **feel** Ivan’s attention turning inwards, to the bond that had formed between them early in his captivity, one that terrified him to even **contemplate** what it meant for him._

_He could almost see the darkly satisfied smirk on the other’s face, and shivered, knowing that the violet-eyed monarch knew he was listening to every word they were saying._

_“Centuries may pass while we are at war, and nothing will change. No matter what, he will remain forever **mine**.”_

            The voices faded, both in his mind and in reality, as the two demons moved away from the hallway he’d hidden himself in, and he felt the proclamation of years past ring through his veins, echoing within the confines of his mind. He felt his eyelids flutter shut for the briefest of seconds, as the weight of meaning settled into the marrow of his bones. But it was nothing he hadn’t already known, he thought in resignation, blue eyes opening once more to gaze upon the stillness of the palace around him. He would do everything he could to stop that declaration from becoming whole truth.

            _Never_ , he promised himself, biting his lip – knowing that there was a chance he was lying to himself, but unable to even _think_ about it – and felt the tension in his limbs settle as the palace warmed around him. He released the pillar, moving out into the hallway – tunic billowing out in the sudden gust of wind that caught him by surprise – before turning the corner. A few of the flowers – loosened from the woven crown when he’d plucked out the candytuft earlier – were caught in the wind and blew back down the hallway he’d left behind.

            A dark, gloved hand snapped out from around the corner at the opposite end of the hallway and caught a single cherry blossom by its stem as the flower blew past him. Several pale candytufts clung to the light bough in the hand, and they were pulled closer for a brief examination. Violet eyes followed the tail of their intended’s tunic as the younger vanished from view, before turning heady attention towards the flora in hand. A smirk lifted on pale lips.

            _Indifference and impermanence, hmm?_ The smirk was barely shy of wicked. _Not for long, my dear, I promise you._


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Alfie's driven to rising desperation, and Ivan's fed up with playing nice. But he's not quite ready to be mean just yet. Arthur would gut him. And there's a part in the middle that kinda pops up, and wow, hi Ludwig, didn't see you coming.
> 
> Also, fic rating escalates in this chapter to a rated E in the flashback. I'm not sure if it needs that rating, but to stay on the safe side, there you have it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how to convey to you how impossibly hard it was to finish this chapter. I had most of it done by the time Chapter five was posted, but I just couldn't FINISH it. Chapter seven has all of one line written, so I'm super sorry but I don't think there will be much more very soon. I've written out the ending though, so it will finish, I promise. It'll just take some time.
> 
> For now though, I hope you enjoy the long awaited Chapter 6! And for those who are interested, please keep an eye out the upcoming Mafia AU that should be up sometime within the next few weeks (life and college willing).

            When he woke the next morning, the flowers in the vase next to his bedside had changed. Clove scented sharply in the room, so he knew they were amongst the bouquet. There were pale yellow tansies amongst blood red tulip – _I’m declaring war on your heart_ – and he nearly leapt up from his bed in response to their sudden appearance. How had Ivan gotten into his bedroom while he’d been _sleeping?!_

            That day, he threaded foxglove through his braid crown, and tucked a hydrangea behind his ear. The scandalized looks some of the court gave him made him smirk, but the way violet eyes darkened at the response made his day.

            He ventured out of the palace that day, to meet up with some of his friends in the inner city area for lunch. He hadn’t seen them since the equinox, and despite the speed of the rumors within the palace, he was sure that they didn’t know about the…uh… _recent development_ s. Two of them – if he was remembering right – had been approached by suitors during the Presentation, and dawned a sash with either their family colors, or their suitor’s, wound tight around their waist. Elizabeta caught everyone’s attention when she saw the sash at his waist and _squealed_ so loud she nearly shattered the glassware.

            Half the restaurant jumped half a mile, whirling around to see what had caused the ruckus, and the other half ignored them with practiced ease. Still, as he walked into the eatery, he could _feel_ the eyes on him. This was the first time he’d been outside the palace since the courtship had begun, and even though word had spread quickly through the city, the actual sight of him walking around with the sash draped around his waist stopped people in their tracks. The flowers on his head – for those that knew what they meant – had people running into each other, staring at him as he’d walked past.

            “Has everyone already ordered?” he asked, pulling up a chair and pouting a bit at the series of nods he received. Kiku – Elizabeta’s partner in crime – smiled a bit at his pout.

            “We can always share,” he pointed out gently, “or you could order once the waitress returns. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind the last-minute addition.” His face lit up.

            “No need for an order,” their waitress called out when she made her way over, having overheard the last bits of the conversation, and they stared at her in confusion. Brown eyes brightened when they caught sight of Alfred, and she gave him a half bow before presenting one of the trays of food to him. “For you, my Prince.”

            Curious, he pulled the silver covering from the platter and nearly gaped. His friends leaned in closer, and their eyes went wide. On the tray was his favorite food, the one even his father didn’t know he liked! He’d tried a cheeseburger when he’d snuck off to the human realm one day, and had fallen in love with the meaty, greasy fast-food, especially when it was well made. And there, sitting innocently on the silver platter, was a professionally made cheeseburger – with all his favorite toppings, from what he could see – and a steaming mug of coffee (which his father hated keeping in the palace, so he never got to drink it), made just the way he liked it – with diabetic inducing sweetness, but black as sin. He swallowed, suddenly feeling like everyone was watching him (which wasn’t too far off of the mark – at least half the restaurant was) as he studied the meal he’d been presented with. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of just staring at his food, he turned to the waitress in question.

            “A man dropped by earlier this morning and requested a meal for you, sire,” she said in response, “he claimed it was part of your courtship gift.” He glanced back to the plate, astounded, before jerking his head back up to study the suddenly nervous waitress with a little more focus.

            “ _Part_ of my gift, he said?” he inquired, and she nodded excitedly while withdrawing a small, square, velvet jewelry box from within her apron skirt. The area around him suddenly quieted with the box’s appearance. His friends were practically vibrating in glee. He received the red velvet box – about the size of his palm – with a good deal of hesitation, and settled it on the table, next to his meal. Carefully, well aware of all eyes on him, he tugged the top off of the box and _stared_. Distantly, he heard the gasps of his friends, and the stunned reaction of half of the nearby watchers, but all he was focused on was the intricate bracelet he was holding that was practically _saturated_ with the Fallen King’s magic.

            If he put that thing on, it was as good as an acceptance claim.

            He pulled it from the box, studying it as he held it, trying to ignore the magic trying to wrap around his own. It was a golden chain link bracelet, with runic engravings on every link. The links themselves were dainty, not bulky, and some of them shined with an almost sapphire glow. It was very obviously hand crafted by custom order, and very, _very_ expensive.

            _Damn you, you bastard!_ His favorite food – professionally made and custom to his preferences – proved his suitor knew who he was as a person, more so than anyone else could claim, considering not even his family knew of his preferences. The golden bracelet – elegant, classic, but custom crafted and enchanted for his wellbeing – proved that his suitor could provide for his wellbeing and cater to any of his needs and whims. His suitor was perfectly capable of courting a prince – he certainly had the wealth that necessitated, and he’d showcased that here.

            “Enjoy your meal, my Prince,” the waitress said, breaking his increasingly frantic train of thought, and distributed the rest of his friends’ meals, bowing once more, before heading away to take other orders.

            There was silence for a brief moment, and then his friends erupted.

            “That’s a _hand carved_ piece, Alfred,” the brunette angel gaped at him when she noted his distinct lack of reaction, “ _How_ can you thread _foxglove_ through your hair when the man is willing to spend so much _at the beginning of your courtship?!_ ”

            “How much a man is willing to spend on a bride is not a measure of his sincerity,” the teen prince quoted, eyeing his disappointed friends. He wore the bracelet nonetheless, knowing it would be spectacularly poor form to reject a gift presented so publically. He cursed inwardly, feeling the other’s magic practically drip off of the golden chain links of the bracelet, wrapping around his own magic possessively.

            Sometimes, being aura sensitive was a real pain.

            Elizabeta spent much of their lunch gushing over how well his suitor seemed to know him – how _romantic_ the other seemed to be – while the others added a token statement here and there, but mostly content with allowing the brunette angel to do all the talking. Kiku gave him a sympathetic glance, obviously having caught on to how against this suitor Alfred was, but said nothing to intervene. His mood – high from the earlier victory against the violet-eyed monarch in their courting game – slowly dampened, even as he put on a brave face and smile for his friends.

            The way violet eyes lit up triumphantly as the caught sight of him storming through the palace later on, bracelet adorning his wrist, soured his already sore mood even more.

* * *

            The next few weeks were an exercise in patience, not just for the sky prince, but for most of the castle’s residents as well.

            Every morning the young prince was greeted with a new bouquet of flowers at his bedside table. _Every morning_ , despite the prince’s attempts to avoid the inevitable reminder that his former tormentor and current suitor was able to find his way into his private bedchamber _ever single night_. One night, the sky-eyed teen had been so desperate that he’d slept in Matthew’s room, while Gilbert was out of the city on business. He’d woken face-to-face with a bouquet of Amaryllis, Aster and Apples. His shriek had startled Matthew right off the other side of the bed, and the sunset-eyed angel had stared at the bouquet in quiet astonishment before rubbing his eyes in frustration.

            Ludwig, when he’d heard, had taken every single guard in charge of guarding the royal wing and run them into the ground during a surprise training boot camp. Being able to get into Alfred’s room repeatedly was one thing; being able to get into _both of their rooms_ without anyone detecting him…the guards were in _big_ trouble.

            Everywhere Alfred went outside the palace – whether it was a café, a restaurant, or simply a nearby park – he was met with random people presenting him with gifts from his suitor that the man had cunningly dispersed before he’d arrived. He’d have lunch delivered to him wherever he went – always one of his favorites – and small gifts often accompanied the deliveries. Even when Alfred had fled to the cloud canyon outside the city on a whim, someone had found him and given him a full Russian breakfast fare – something he knew Ivan favored given the sheer number of times he’d seen the other eat it during his captivity (and something he was secretly fond of, due to repeated exposure he told himself) – and a bundle of freshly made senbon straight from Japan’s best weapons maker.

            Not even his father knew he’d incorporated senbon in his fighting style, given how sneaky they often ended up being. He was such a frontline fighter – in your face, in your space – that ranged attacks were something he rarely practiced in front of others. He only ever used them in spars against Gilbert, who kept his confidence for more than just being his brother-in-law, not wanting to lose a potential advantage.

            It seemed that – at long last – the stubborn, sky-eyed prince had found his match. Only the truly determined could out-stubborn the stubborn angel, and, well…if this wasn’t considered as such, the entire palace staff would turn in their collective resignations.

            Talk ran rampant throughout the halls. The topics varied, but they were fairly well related as well. Curious and excited servants gossiped about wedding planning: the most auspicious location for a royal ceremony, how well the royal house blues and golds might go with the suitor’s own house colors, the style of attire that the prince might wear, the flowers they would use, the gems used for the engagement rings and the bonding cuffs, and so on. Guards lamented about all the furniture they’d have to move, and debated about how tight security might turn out to be. Guests and courtiers were a little more aware about how reluctant the teen prince was being about this suitor, but knew that – at some point – the King was going to put his foot down. The fact that the King hadn’t contested the courtship was as good as an official seal of approval.

            And on top of his suitor’s relentless efforts, all of the stress was slowly driving Alfred just shy of insane. Which led to his current situation.

            He knew he shouldn’t be out so late at night, especially not with Ivan and his ilk walking around. It was dark, draped in shadows and grayscale as he walked through the outer streets and towards the open sky fields near the gates of the city. The gates would be closed, but that was okay. He didn’t need to pass through them; he didn’t think they’d let him out anyways. He just needed some peace of mind. He needed somewhere that Ivan would not find him, and no one was watching him; a haven where he could finally clear his mind and think about the situation he was embroiled in.

            The whole realm was watching his courtship with bated breath, waiting anxiously to finally see the one who was courting the prince with such startling persistence. At this point, he was sure anyone who didn’t know what he’d been through at the monarch’s hand would accept him. They wanted to see him happy.

            He wondered if he could ever be happy the way they wished him to be.

            There was a soft rustling noise coming from behind him that interrupted his thoughts, and he froze. The rustling, from what he could tell, was coming from the small, grey shaded cloud bushes that he’d been walking past. He turned, slowly, to face the squirming shrubs, and for a second, everything went still. He felt his body tense.

            A squirrel went flying out of the shrubbery, dashing towards the tree on the other side of the street, chattering madly. He felt his shoulders slump with the release of tension and mentally chastised himself; the curfew his father had recently set for him must’ve really been getting to his imagination for him to start hallucinating imaginary footsteps…

            “Alfred?” came the inquiring voice from behind him, and he yelped, whirling around, his hand almost going towards his hidden throwing knives before his mind placed the mystery voice, and evident source of the footsteps.

            Francis, his father’s not-so-secret love and the head of the Royal Guard, was standing behind him, arms crossed in front of him, emulating his father’s patented look of parental disapproval with just a hint of amusement and understanding lining that gaze.

            At least it hadn’t been either of the monarchs, out for a late night stroll, or even his brother and Gilbert, exploring the city night. Francis, in comparison, was a far better person to have been caught by.

            He knew that well; he had experience with it after all.

            “Having a late night walk, are we?” the elder angel asked, a brow rising, but Alfred could see the amusement twisting his lips into a smile he didn’t even try to bite back.

            “Just needed space to think,” he returned, just as bluntly, and Francis smiled. He sidled closer and slung a protective arm around the younger, but slightly taller angel.

            He hummed as he begun steering them both back towards the palace, “Would you like a sounding board?” Alfred’s brow rose at the human terminology that wasn’t often brought into the Royal City, and felt his lips quirk. He shrugged, and Francis beamed, evident even in the early night’s moonlight.

            “It’s just Dad,” he said softly, almost not saying anything at all. He thought of the conversation they’d had earlier that very day, where he’d confronted his father on what was going on. “I don’t understand what he’s doing, Francis,” he said, upset, as they crossed the nearby park, “He knows what that bastard did! Why’s he doing this?”

            “Arthur, hmm,” Francis mused softly, and they stopped near the edges of the palace patrol, just out of sight. Alfred glanced up to meet blue eyes – like his own, but not – and Francis smiled, “Do not be so harsh on your father, _cher_. He loves you dearly. He wants to see you happy beyond all possible measures.”

            “But he refuses to listen to me,” he protested, feeling the ache hit him deeply when he thought of the _other_ conversations he’d had with his father in private since the violet-eyed monarch arrived in their realm. “He’s _encouraging me_ to bond.” Blue eyes glared back into blue desperately. “It’s like he’s totally changed his mind!”

            Francis felt his heart pang with sadness as he studied the young man he thought of as his own child. His love had really done a number on the young prince in his stubbornness. Alfred was not unintelligent, but he was emotional, and sometimes that drove him more than his brain. The monarch _knew_ this, yet he persisted in driving his son insane by refusing to give his reasons for encouraging the courtship.

            “He has his reasons, _cher_ ,” he said softly, sadly, as he knew his words were no reassurance for the younger angel, “I know you don’t understand it, and I wish I could explain it to you more, but…” he trailed off, wordless, and very unlike himself. He wished he could explain the depth of the bond that had grown between the angelic prince and the Fallen monarch, though he doubted he could ever understand it more than Alfred himself did. He wished he could speak of love – though he doubted there could ever be that deep a relationship between the captor and his former captive – but Alfred would either not understand or misunderstand. And with the damned monarch prowling around the palace, just _waiting_ for the closest opportunity to make a decisive move in his suit, it was not a state he wanted to place the young prince in.

            So he wrapped an arm around the tired, weary young prince, with eyes older than any angel his age had the right to be, and tried to bring up his usual sly smile, “Now, let’s see how we’re going to get back into the castle without your father finding out you’ve broken your curfew, hmm?”

* * *

_The world was spinning. He closed his eyes to try and center himself – though lord knew what it would do for him – and took in his surroundings. The soft silk sheets at his back was a nice change from the cold, hard concrete he’d been subject to, and his aches sang in brief, blissful relief. He could feel the heavy collar around his neck and the weighted cuffs on his wrists and ankles, cutting off access to his magic reserves and energy, but it was the normal weight, not torturously heavy. The room pulsed with aura, but there was no one within that he could sense, which set him at ease almost as much as it frayed his nerves._

_His captor was not easily sensed, not even by the aura sensitive, like him._

_He bit back a sigh as his senses relaxed almost against his will, shifting to a more accommodating position for his body to begin its nightly healing process. Gilbert had been harder on him today than usual, and an odd part of his brain wondered what had been bothering the usually humorous war general. Most of his mind, however, was currently focused on the hand that had appeared on his thigh and was spreading his legs apart with gentility usually unknown to demon kind._

_His eyes blinked open tiredly, meeting the violet ones of his captor, who was watching him with an inscrutable expression on his face. There was a silence as both of them observed the other._

_A moment later, he was flipped roughly onto his front, forced to his knees and spread apart. He bit back a scream as he felt the burn in his entrance get worse with the other prodding around with ruthless efficiency. But he slid his eyes shut and bore the pain, knowing even if he tried to resist, the other would pry screams from him almost effortlessly._

_There was another brief pause in the other’s actions, and a hand came up, almost gently, to trace one of the markings – one of many bite marks and claims the other had inflicted upon his body – around his hip. For the faintest heartbeat, he could swear he felt the gentle pulse of reassurance – of **you’re okay**_ _and **I’ll take care of you** – come through the bond that had formed early on in his captivity (a bond he didn’t really want to think on). But then the moment passed and the hand caressing his hip moved to grip his hair, and bared his throat forcefully to the being holding him down._

_And the pain began again._

            He bolted through the gardens, as if a monster were on his heels, chased – in truth – by the memories he thought he’d long forsaken. They’d wrenched him from his bed forced him in search of reprieve. Reprieve he could only find in one place…

            _There_ , he noted, feeling the relief coursing through his body. The conversations he’d had in the days past had taken their toll on him and his psyche. He knew what his father would prefer him to do, but he just needed _him_ …just once….

            “Ludwig!” he called out hoarsely, catching sight of the other angel about to take off from the center garden – probably to concentrate a patrol in another area – when the other caught sight of him.

            “Alfred,” he said, eyes widening in their surprise as he neared, taking in his worn constitution and his determined gaze, “is there something wrong? Is there anything I should do? Should I get someone…” he froze.

            “Wait,” he said as he caught Ludwig by his wrist, whirling them together so Ludwig had wrapped his arms snugly around his waist, a hand on each hip. With a meager height difference, they were staring at each other, at eye level, and he saw Ludwig’s eyes widen briefly. “Once,” he asked, _pleaded_ , “only once, before I cannot.” And Ludwig understood, because Ludwig had known him since his fledgling days and if he hadn’t been caught, Ludwig would’ve been his _husband_ …

            Without further adieu, he leant up and pressed his lips against the others.

            The kiss wasn’t gentle, like their first. It was filled with passion, longing, and grief. They hadn’t once exchanged a truly intimate touch since Alfred had returned from captivity and realized that their magic was no longer compatible, but it seemed as if the final dam had burst and every emotion they’d ever bottled up rose to the surface. Ludwig whirled them around, pressing the prince against the hedge wall as he deepened the kiss almost desperately, and Alfred responded in kind.

            Finally, they parted, panting heavily, still refusing to release each other. Until, reluctantly, Alfred looked up to the man crouched over him, and begged, “Stay with me. If not as my husband, as my _friend_ , _please_.” Ludwig pressed his forehead against the younger angel’s soft and grieving in a way he’d never show another.

            “As long as you’ll have me,” he said hoarsely, “Always.” And they, finally, let go.

* * *

            Mind racing and heart grieving, he didn’t really give much attention towards his surroundings. He’d stormed in, and threw himself on the bed, only making a brief, cursory search of his room with his aura to determine any lingering presences nearby. Curled into a ball, wrapped in his thick quilt – that, really, was a little much for the late-April weather – he didn’t notice when the candlelight keeping his chambers lit – however dimly – went out. Moonlight lit up his curled figure until the curtains were drawn. So wrapped in his thoughts and the pain of an emotional parting, he missed the shadows lengthening and the way every exit was slowly cut off.

            He didn’t miss the way the doors slammed shut of their own accord.

            He didn’t even pause to let his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness when he dove from the bed, narrowly avoiding whatever was in his room as it made a grab for him. Desperately untangling himself from the sheets, his eyes took in the darkened room and he whirled to the side, feeling something whoosh past him by inches. His keen gaze – sharpened by two years of living in near-constant darkness in the demonic realm – caught a hint of movement by the window, but his ears caught the soft whoosh of cloth…behind him.

            He dove into a roll, sending a flurry of senbon behind him; grateful beyond belief that he’d thrown himself onto the bed still fully armed and risked stabbing himself with the pointy needles. They were incredibly useful now.

            He rose steadily from his crouch, sensing no movement in his room. His fingers curled around another wave of sharp needles, this time, potion coated, as he glanced around, eyes sharpening as they took in the room.

            “Show yourself.” He barked into the stillness of his room, wondering where the hell the guard was, even as he forced his breathing to regulate. He rolled on the balls of his feet, even as his eyes stilled from their frantic scanning. There was a brief silence, before a chuckle shattered the stillness. His heart skipped a beat and his breath hitched, but he forced the shock and mild terror down. _Later,_ he though _, freak out **later**_.

            He knew that voice, after all.

            “You know,” the deep voice purred, and he ducked the grab from behind, leaping to the side, even though he knew the other wasn’t there anymore, “there are rules one follows in different circumstances.”

            “Oh?” he countered, sharp eyes scanning what he could see, “You’re sure breaking a lot of them right now. Not sure you can lecture me on rules.” There was a hum of acknowledgement that seemed to come from in front of him, but there was no one there, and he heard the whisper of movement seconds before he dodged to the side, flinging gleaming steel as he did so.

            They missed, or so he thought, but the figure in the dark paused for a split-second longer than necessary.

            His stalker’s next lunge caught the edge of his sash in one hand and sent both of them sprawling. Ever quick, he slipped a dagger into his hand and cut through the soft fabric of the sash, and the other – who’d just thrown his weight behind his grip on the sash – stumbled backwards as he lost his counterweight. Alfred used the split-second of lost balance to pivot and practically danced across the room, eyeing where gleaming steel had pierced through his walls and furniture.

            Fingers curled around the blue sash in hand, and Alfred could _feel_ the stare being aimed at him, no matter the fact that he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

            “ _That_ ,” he half snarled, “doesn’t belong to _you_.” He practically spat the last word, knowing that even though letting him get a hold of the sash had been the better tactical option to gain more ground, it was a personal slight. The other was his suitor – his _unwanted_ suitor – and had no right to the sash he had not personally given him. The only one who ever came close to claiming the courting sash he wore had been Ludwig, and the only reason he _hadn’t_ was because Alfred had been captured before he could give it away.

            “It will,” echoed through the room, and he wondered at the thin line of building anger threaded through the words, “it _certainly_ won’t belong to anyone else. Especially,” the voice grew stronger, sturdier, _angrier_ , “not your precious _Ludwig_.”

            _The kiss_ , he inhaled sharply in realization, and lunged forward a split second too late as he heard movement behind him. He was hauled backwards by his collar, the other neatly maneuvering around the daggers he stabbed behind him until his wrist was sealed in a vice grip, incapacitated. His other hand tried to pry away the breath stealing grip the other had on his throat, but the other adjusted the lock he had on his throat and moved to pin both arms behind him.

            Shoved from behind, he was made to kneel on his bed, arms pinned to the small of his back, before – finally – his captor deigned to show his face. A hand gripped his chin firmly, forcing his eyes up to meet murderous violet. He could feel the cold chill of icy magic flare around the elder’s grip, and shivered.

            “If you think manhandling me is going to make me forgive you,” he growled, “you’ve lost your fucking mind.” The smirk on his captor’s face scared the shit out of him, but he’d be damned if he let the man have that satisfaction in _his own home_.

            “Your father thinks forgiving me will allow you to be happy,” he cooed to the angel he’d pinned on the bed, smile completely at odds with the vicious, possessive glint in his eyes, “He lets me court you despite his utter hatred of me. And you,” the monarch let his magic flow around them, and entwine with the other’s. Alfred swallowed a curse and a moan when he felt his body go limp, his entire soul purring at the attention it was receiving, and his head slumped back, exposing his neck to the wickedly smirking monarch holding him down, “you cannot resist me, when it comes down to it.”

            “ _Bastard_ ,” he half choked, half swore, trying to pull himself together as much as he could. Five years it had been since his last direct exposure to the aura of the King himself, and obviously those five years hadn’t been nearly enough. “You’re not gonna get away with this bullshit” he hissed, viciously, “I swear, I’ll deny you in front of the entire realm. You’ll _never_ have me again.”

            The monarch laughed, “I’m sure you’ll try,” he said, amused, eyes gleaming, a smirk curling on his lips. “But _darling_ , I have months, still, to court you. You could probably say no, at the end, if you truly wanted to. But,” and here, the smirk turned wicked, “your body craves me, your soul and magic yearn for mine, and even your mind betrays you, whispering that I could never, ever do what I once did to you, not with everyone watching me…now could I?” He released the angel from the pin, and watched the younger scatter backwards, away from him, eyes defiant but concealing the hint of fear that he knew confirmed everything that he’d said.

            These were all things he’d known about himself – had hated to admit to, but knew -, and still, Alfred felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. And the monarch wasn’t done.

            “All I have left to win is your heart,” the declaration was as deafening as one of war, “and that which I truly want, I have never failed to acquire.” Violet eyes pierced him unnervingly, as the other reached into his pocket and withdrew a slim package, the other tucking away the sash he’d stolen from the prince’s waist.

            Alfred caught the package he’d been tossed out of reflex and glared at the other. “I need my sash,” he growled. The other smirked.

            “You need _a_ sash,” he corrected, “and you have one. Good evening, little prince.” And the monarch disappeared into the shadows of his room – neatly avoiding the wave of gleaming steel that followed him – the doors opening automatically as the magic forcing them shut dissipated. The curtains drew themselves open and the candles relit themselves, bathing the room in moonlight and the dim light of the candles.

            He leapt from the bed, grabbing at the bed’s frame to keep his knees from shaking, and eyed the doors wearily. His grip tightened around the parcel that he’d been tossed, and he bit his lip as he steadied himself. He glanced at the package, before, reluctantly, tearing it open. Shimmering silver lined fabric gleamed at him from under the candlelight, and the violet of the cloth seemed to sink into the shadows around him.

            _“Remember Alfred_ ,” his mother had said, _“a sash won by trickery, though somewhat looked down upon in society, is as good as one won by honor and choice. And once you’re wearing their sash around your waist, they’ve won half the battle. Even your father loses his ability to interfere from then on.”_

            He threw himself on his bed and swore. His father was going to kill him.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we see why Alfred's fiercely opposed to letting Ivan anywhere near him, yet completely aware that he has no choice in the matter. Some things are explained, and a conclusion is finally revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, am I glad this is out! The last part, by the way, was one of the first things I wrote, so I'm damned proud that it's finally coming into play in the story (even if I can't believe I actually wrote that).  
> I love the RusAme ship so much. Writing them like this is equally a challenge and a hardship. Their relationship is far from the best right now, but it will get better. The worst, at least, is over. And Ivan *is* capable of change.  
> A lot more flashbacks in this chapter, and they're probably as graphic as I'll ever get.

            The look his father gave him when he caught sight of the silver embroidered violet sash wrapped around his face was a mix of outraged and agonized, mixed in with a hint of exasperation in the old _what did you **do** , Alfred _kind of way.

            The soft “He stole mine,” that came from him turned the outrage into grudging acceptance mixed with an odd combination of relief and grief. Cunning and trickery was just as accepted in a courtship as bold moves and outspoken maneuvers. In stealing Alfred’s own sash, replacing it with one in his own house colors, with his personal crest embroidered on the soft material, Ivan had effectively shanghaied him into approving the courtship to move beyond the first stages.

            It made things worse that _now_ he would have to progress into the next step in the courting processes: the dates. Planned outings – with a chaperone of his choice, thankfully – and being _seen_ with the other man in public, which would very neatly reveal who his suitor was, would commence. His window for action was remarkably narrow now; he had to continue through the courtships, but there were very few points at which he could reject the other, should anything go wrong.

            He doubted anything would though, knowing how determined the monarch was. And it wasn’t as if the court would disapprove, given their lack of knowledge regarding what had happened during his captivity. Stars, in the decades before he’d been captured – before the tenuous ceasefire ruptured violently – they’d proposed the idea of a political marriage between the two of them. It had made sense then – he’d long since known that there was always the possibility of an arranged marriage in his future – but it had fallen through the wayside once the violence escalated.

            Once the advisors knew just _who_ his suitor was…well. Any chance of denying him evaporated into thin air. And he couldn’t tell them the truth. He _wouldn’t_.

            It’s not like it would change anything, anyways. It was just _such_ and easy fix to the situation they had.

            “ _Alfred_ ,” his father’s voice – startlingly soft, unlike him – brought him out of his depressing thoughts, and he blinked, only to find himself wrapped in the man’s arms. He wondered, for half a second, when the man had crossed the parlor but then he shoved it away and let his father’s comforting aura reassure him. He hadn’t accepted comfort from the other man – barring the first night he’d returned and his father had nearly _refused_ to let him go – in decades; not since he’d finished his battle training and set off to war against his father’s will. It felt odd to accept it now – nothing had _really_ happened, after all – but…it felt good.

            He burrowed into the warmth, “I can still say no,” he added stubbornly, blue eyes peaking out at the King’s face.

            Arthur’s eyes were both warm and pained, “Of course,” he breathed, but there was a hint of sadness in his voice that contradicted his words, “It’s always going to be your choice.”

            He almost wanted to laugh. A disbelieving snort escaped him anyways, and his father wacked him on his head (though far gentler than it usually was), verbally chastising him and probably taking far too much pleasure in it. He let the man have his rant. They’d continue their conversation as soon as Arthur ran out of steam.

            Sure enough, after a few minutes, the monarch huffed, sighing as he returned to his seat across the table from his son. “He’ll be _insufferable_ during the meetings, Alfred,” he almost groaned, “Francis will have to spell me to my throne. I’ll tear out his throat otherwise.”

            “I wouldn’t mind,” he murmured darkly, unrepentant even when his father gave him a _look_ , despite what he’d said himself.

            The monarch chose not to respond to that, switching gears entirely. “You’ve been going to the center park a lot more often,” he noted instead, knowing his son was fully aware of the guards that stalked him everywhere.

            “They’ve got some new blooms in from Earth,” Alfred returned, eyes brightening as he pushed the previous topic away, “Some of the community gardeners were considering breeding them with some of the native plants to see what kind of hybrid they come up with. I’ve been looking into getting some of the seeds to try it myself….” And so they went on.

            However, regardless of their increasingly light and airy conversation, the anger and the desperation of their previous conversation lingered. Alfred’s own frustration was being emphasized and amplified by his father’s frustrations. Alfred couldn’t go against his father’s will, but his _father_ was responsible for far more than just _his_ wellbeing. And when they considered it as objectively as they could –which was damn near impossible – the bonding was a good idea to bring about peace. Despite his father’s desire for him to be happy, the way the situation was turning out was making them _both_ increasingly helpless. Sure, his father could hold the negotiations hostage, but soon enough, people would begin to wonder _why_.

            It had been largely unsaid up until this point, but the message had been clear enough that his father had never needed to clarify. The moment he accepted the Fallen King’s courtship – entrusting himself and all that he was to the monarch who’d once tortured and abused him – he declared to the world that he’d _forgiven_ him of whatever sins the two realms believed the king had committed against him. He doubted he could _ever_ truly forgive the demonic monarch for what he’d done, but by intertwining his forgiveness and the commencement of the peace process between their two realms, his father had made it an inescapable inevitability.

            Even if the man hadn’t factored in the courtship when he’d first informed Alfred of his condition to the peace process.

            The only balm to their collective anger and frustration was that Ivan would be holed up in his suite for the following week, ill and bedridden from what his advisor, Yao, had grudgingly claimed to be a nasty bout of the flu that had been going around. Alfred smirked when that announcement had come out, only an hour or so before he’d met his father for lunch in the parlor, fingers twitching to caress deadly steel and poison that hid beneath his billowy sleeves, well aware of what had _actually_ subdued the ever-persistent demonic monarch. As, apparently, Yao had been, given the look of annoyance and grudging respect the ochre-eyed demon had pierced him within minutes of the announcement.

            Ivan may have won that battle, but Alfred had been the one to grab the metaphorical last word of the night. He hoped the other was enjoying worshiping the porcelain throne in his suite. It served the bastard right.

            Even if the side effects were only temporary.

            His father had been so proud.

            He’d even remarked, towards the end of their conversation, that Alfred seemed to have inherited his paranoia. He’d sounded torn between satisfied and slightly distraught, but Alfred himself hadn’t been. He’d only given his father a tired smirk that didn’t seem to fit on his face, and explained the truth.

            That the only reason he was still alive – and heaven was still standing – was because of his father’s paranoia.

* * *

            _He bit back the throat-stripping scream that begged to leave his lips as Ivan pressed down on his broken arm, binding it down completely pinned by the rest of his weight. He breathed in sharply through his nose and lost it as the other shoved a fist into his stomach. Breathless, all he could think of was the burning. It was so cold, so frigid, and it burned him so deeply. It was all consuming, radiating from the monarch holding him down._

_This was punishment, he thought. This was rage, and fury, and punishment bearing down on him. Ivan wanted to know about the royal family._

_But Alfred hadn’t known that they **didn’t know.**_

_He wondered if laughing aloud would attract attention, and then felt stupid for thinking it. He cursed and praised his father’s paranoia in the single gasp that was wrenched from his lips when one of the deeper wounds on his abdomen opened up due to the monarch’s rough handling. They didn’t know what they could do. They didn’t know who he was._

_They didn’t know that his father would bring down heaven brick by brick if it meant bringing him back home._

_He felt the elder move down his body, biting down harshly on his lips when he felt the other flip him over roughly before gripping his sprained ankle and spreading him painfully. He knew what was to come, even before he felt the pressure at his raw entrance. He savored the metallic taste of copper and iron in his mouth and suddenly there was **burning** ; it was inside him, surrounding him, embracing him, and setting every nerve alight with pain and underneath – a part he buried so deep in his shame – there was the faintest stirring of forgotten, forbidden pleasure._

_He tasted blood and it felt like **victory**._

_He threw his head back and screamed._

* * *

**TIME SKIP**

* * *

            The Summer Solstice was always a big deal in the angelic realm. It was filled with energy and festivities, and the Royal family always celebrated it grandly, extravagantly. No expenses were ever spared, even during wartime, because it was one of two occasions that the people of the realm could set aside their differences and celebrate life amidst all the death and suffering war brought.

            So, it went without saying that the weeks leading into the solstice were extremely busy for everyone involved in the preparations. Even Alfred had been recruited into helping out some of the guards shuffle equipment back and forth between locations; something they’d never have let him do in any other situation. Which is why he was he was surprised to hear his brother-in-law’s voice – relaxed, lazy, and _almost_ careless – coming from the sun garden.

            “Well, you’ve always been a possessive bastard,” he heard Gilbert grouse and slowed his steps to almost silent as he slunk towards the curved wall that blocked the entrance of the sun garden. His arms wrapped snugly around the burden he’d been tasked to deliver down to his brother in the armory, who would lead the parade of the guards on the solstice day festivals in two weeks time. He curled it closer to himself – ensuring it wouldn’t crinkle or come into contact with anything that would consequently reveal him – and snuck closer to the entrance in order to listen.

            “Does it really surprise you?” he heard a familiar voice rumble, and nearly froze at the sound of the demonic monarch. He wasn’t _entirely_ surprised, he supposed. Gilbert and Ivan had been close while Gilbert had been a demon, though they didn’t get along all the time, and Ivan courting him would’ve prompted Gil to get closer to the monarch in order to uncover his intentions. It was no secret that Gilbert was overprotective of him, almost as much as Matthew was, though nowhere _near_ the level of his father, thank the stars.

            “That you found a way to con him into accepting your courtship?” his brother-in-law asked rhetorically, voice cooling just a fraction, and he could practically see the albino angel raising a brow, “Not at all. I almost expected it when I first heard Kirkland’s plan. Then again, with the situation as it is, I’m not sure _this_ is what _he_ was expecting.”

            Alfred barely refrained from snorting. Wasn’t _that_ the truth.

            “I _did_ tell you he was mine,” the monarch commented, almost mildly, as if commenting on the weather. “Did you expect any less of me?”

            Gilbert snorted, “I don’t think even _you_ expected this when you first arrived. You didn’t even know who he was.”

            The reluctant, sulking silence confirmed that, and Alfred almost smiled. Gilbert took that as confirmation and laughed, “Possessive bastard.”

            “Naturally,” the amusement was back in the monarch’s voice and Alfred wanted to kick him where it would hurt. He straightened a bit from his crouched pose, carefully positioning his arms so he muffled any sound that came from the equipment in his arms, before moving closer to the door so he could see.

            Risky, of course, but wasn’t everything he did?

            “Doesn’t he wear enough of your signature anyways?” he heard Gilbert grumble to his former monarch as he finally caught sight of them, both former comrades nursing glasses of wine in the sun garden, on the central roof of the palatial structure. Ivan raised a brow as Alfred rolled his eyes, still hidden near the entrance. He settled back into a low crouch, resting against the back wall to support himself.

            “I’ve hardly given him anything with my magic on it,” he said mildly, tone belaying his irritation, “It would hardly be appropriate so early in the courtship.”

            “Bah!” Gilbert scoffed, “You’ve been courting him for nearly three months now, and the solstice is coming up. You’ve already got him wearing that bracelet you gave him, along with the sash – which, really, shouldn’t count much considering you practically cornered him into that – and that old ruby pendant on a silver chain that practically _drips_ with your aura, it’s ridiculous, so…whatever’s the opposite of awesome– ”

            “What pendant?” Ivan interrupted sharply, his eyes narrowing on the ranting albino angel even as Alfred felt every ounce of his being freeze in sheer, unmitigated terror. His arms clenched around the burden in his arms as he heard the monarch repeat again, more forcefully, “ _What pendant_ , Gilbert?” as Gilbert blinked at him, startled.

            “The-the one where you’d kept the information,” Gilbert said, pausing a little to dig out the memory from old recollections, “That old ruby one, the one you refused to let anyone touch. You never let any of us near him when you were using it, don’t you remember?”

            There was a brilliant, breathtaking moment of utter silence.

            “The one he stole the night he ran,” Gilbert added, and he could _hear_ the way the man’s eyes narrowed.

           “He couldn’t have left my kingdom with it,” the monarch growled, and even from where he’d hidden, he could see the demonic glow that lit his violet eyes. Alfred forced back the shiver that it inspired and bit his lip, viciously, to stem his reaction. “I would have sensed it the moment he’d moved it from its safety. There were wards to stop it from leaving the citadel. I thought it was _lost_ , not that it had been _stolen_.”

            “And in the five years since he’d fled, you couldn’t _once_ find it?” Gilbert scoffed, a brow raised in mockery. “Tell me it doesn’t explain how they won. You _knew_ that Alfred would be unable to reveal anything he learned pertaining to the war, so _how_ did they gain enough information to win if he couldn’t say a thing?”

            “I would have known,” the monarch snarled, and this time there was no way that Alfred could conceal the shiver – of fright, of intrigue, of _excitement_ that he didn’t _dare_ think about – that snuck up his spine. “If he’d worn it, if he’d even _touched_ it _,_ I had wards up and I would’ve _known_.”

            “But you _didn’t_ ,” and this time it was undeniably a taunt from the albino angel, and Alfred restrained the urge to throttle his brother-in-law. Why, oh why, did Gilbert make a habit of goading people vastly more powerful than him with their insecurities or their faults? Ludwig had once commiserated with him over his urge to slingshot his brother from the clouds once he’d returned long enough to make a nuisance of himself to the rest of court. As the consort and spouse of the Prince Heir, only the Angelic King could permanently impose any sort of penalty on the former Fallen. Most of the court’s threats and annoyances held no meaning, so Gilbert taunted them relentlessly. Only this time, Gilbert’s taunts were directed at someone who could _actually hurt him_.

            “You can’t be sure,” the monarch volleyed out, furious, “I _created_ the damned thing, I would _know_.” And Ivan, the stubborn bastard that he was, refused to concede that Gilbert might actually know better on this issue, and was escalating it shamelessly. It was also incredibly hazardous to his own future health to even be _listening_ to this. Though honestly, he wasn’t sure if it would actually be even worse if he left _without_ knowing how this ended.

            “I know what it looks like,” Gilbert spat back, “I helped you spell the thing, I know what it _feels_ like. It’s the same pendant that the brat wears on that stupid silver chain. The same one he had on the moment Matthew found him at the portal entrance five years ago!”

            There was a silence, and Alfred felt his blood chill as tempers cooled, and a thread of realization made its way through the arguing pair.

            “I never sensed it on him,” Ivan said firmly, and Gilbert’s lips tugged into a thoughtful frown.

            “That’s not possible,” he said slowly, and Alfred felt his blood turn to ice in his veins as dawning realization finally broke into the albino angel’s voice, “he’s never taken it off. I’ve never seen him without it. If you’ve never sensed it, if it never broke the wards, he’d have had to…” his voice trailed off into a stunned silence. He didn’t hesitate.

            He bolted from them then; spun on his heel and ran as fast as he could when he realized what Gilbert had said, had unintentionally revealed to the last person he’d wanted to ever know. He didn’t even register the loud crash that reverberated through the hallway and into the very garden he was running from the moment he’d unintentionally released his burden, sending it crashing to the floor as he ran. He could only feel the swell of Ivan’s aura, as realization and a familiar feral heat colored the revelation, and pushed himself faster through marble hallways and scattered gardens until he’d come to the his own door. Slipping through it silently, shutting it with not a single sound, he nearly collapsed against the old oaken frame, heart racing too fast for his own comfort.

            His hand snuck up just beneath his shirt collar and curled around the pendant that lay there, suspended underneath layers of white cloth, and pulsing in time to his heartbeat. It was the same pendant he’d stolen from Ivan’s room in the hours before his escape from the palace, and he felt his fingers tracing out well soothed groves and wear in the old ruby. Even dripping in Ivan’s magic, pulsing with forewarning and looming importance, he’d never been able to rid himself of the damned thing.

            Stealing it from Ivan had won them the war due to the information it had contained, spelled within its ruby depths.

            But in stealing it from Ivan, he’d wrapped it in himself. Desperate to keep the theft hidden, to redeem himself in his own eyes after being caught and humiliated for so _long_ , he wrapped heart and soul around the ruby pendant he’d stolen to keep it from alerting Ivan to its location.

            And in doing so, he’d forgotten exactly _why_ it had been so dangerous to be near it, to have it draped so carelessly on his body. When he’d woken in the Angelic realm after nearly killing himself on a cross-realm literal flight-from-Hell, he’d been met with solemn looks from the healers and desperate, protective grief mixed with fury from his father, who’d been standing sentinel by his bedside.

            In escaping with the pendant – in giving it a part of his essence to save himself – he’d fulfilled the reciprocal aspect of the soul bond Ivan had been so desperate to complete from the first night the chain had been draped along his neck. He’d saved his people, and damned himself.

            And now Ivan – who’d dismissed the pendant as lost, exploited, and/or destroyed – _knew_.

* * *

_The ruby pendant was hanging from his neck again, on a long silver chain that positively dripped of the monarch’s icy magic. Every time the King draped the chain along his bared neck – collar or not – those wicked violet eyes seemed to heat with something feral; something far more powerful than the lust that plagued the pale-haired Fallen King consistently._

_He was on his back this time, legs spread and wound around the demon’s muscled frame, one leg bent nearly in half as that terrifyingly strong grip held it down as the monarch plunged into his slighter frame relentlessly. His head was tossed back, mouth parted, releasing moans of mixed pain and pleasure, neck bared save for the silver chain containing the King’s feral, pulsing trigger. He could hear the monarch’s harsh breaths next to his ear as the elder bowed his head over the younger’s sprawled form._

_It was a twisted, wicked form of reverence, but even as the thrusts into his body grew harsher, as the words whispered in his ear turned to feral snarls, and as the grip on his leg bruised all the way down to the bone, he felt like the victim of a devil’s utmost supplication._

_**Take all of me** , a voice whispered slyly in his mind, **Take me, seize me, claim everything I can give to you as I pull you apart in my embrace…**_

**_And make you completely and utterly mine._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is a little disjointed. I might actually go back an rewrite it later, but since it's been more than a month since I last posted, I wanted to give you guys an update. Especially since Chapter 8 has all of a hundred words and seems to be going nowhere anytime soon.


	9. Interlude: Heart of the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude that takes us back to that fateful revelation, years before, when Alfred was recovering from his stint as Ivan's prisoner. And just what it means to be the Prince of the Sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have literally no idea how this chapter came to be. None at all.

            The sky had always comforted him. No matter what he’d done, what kind of trouble he’d gotten himself into, or how stressful life had been to him, one glimpse of the sky’s swirling whorls and dozens of different hues in triplicate layered into every carefully wild spiral…it calmed him in a way no one had ever been able to.

            His family had always blamed the powerful attachment to the sky on his mother’s blood. His father may have been King, but his mother had been a true creature of the sky. Her wings outspanned his father’s, and none could match her in speed, nor in fluidity. She took to the skies, and it looked as it the world’s beauty existed for the sole purpose of enhancing her own. She moved, and the sky danced around her, _with_ her, until the forces of the very heavens themselves intertwined themselves with her aura. And even before she’d passed on, it had been very clear that he’d inherited that gift from her.

            The Prince of the Sky, they’d called him. Fair enough, when it had been his mother who’d been titled its Queen. After her death, there was not a winged creature in existence that was faster than he was with all the sky’s gale in his wings, and all the world’s love in his heart.

            Ludwig had been a bit jealous at first, when they’d first started that odd not-courting but not-not-courting dance that amused the rest of the city. But as they’d drawn closer to officially courting – as they’d grown to learn each other as they knew themselves – he’d understood. The sky reserved an indisputable place in his heart, in his soul, that he’d born with him since the first time his mother had swaddled him in her arms, infant wings still growing, and took to the skies to introduce the heavens to their newborn Prince.

            But now, with pale pastels and rich blues darkened into vicious inky darkness and whorls of midnight and pitch so dark even the stars couldn’t be seen…the skies reflected the depth and breadth of his feelings – even those he’d pushed away, refused to consider – and he couldn’t bear to seek comfort in those all to familiar skies.

            Lightning flashed, and he turned his face away.

            A warmth wrapped around him, and he startled, turning to meet apologetic ruby eyes and the fringe of a blanket that’d been draped around him. “Easy kiddo,” the former Fallen murmured softly, “It’s just me.”

            “Just you,” he parroted, voice tired, and Gilbert gave him the barest hint of a smirk in return, “I thought you went to drag Mattie away from his post.” His brother had been draining himself, assigning himself the watchman’s post at the door instead of any of the guards. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the urge – to watch, to protect, to make sure nothing _else_ could happen – but the guards were perfectly capable (Alfred had trained with many of them himself), and it wasn’t like he’d been snatched from the heavens themselves. All Matt was doing was stressing himself into an incoherent mess. And not in a good way, either.

            “I did,” the albino said, grinning in a manner that reminded Alfred almost painfully of his and Ludwig’s more mischievous pranks when they’d been much younger, “I made him some of that tea your father likes and stirred in some of the maple syrup he’s squirreled away. Knocked him right out.”

            His brows rose, surprised, before a mixture of amusement and concern washed over him, “Was he really that out of it?” _Did you really need to drug him, Gil?_ His brother didn’t sleep that hard unless he had meditated or had been drugged. And in the frame of mind he was sure Matthew was in… _drugged it was_.

            “Enough so that your old man was getting worried,” Gil admitted, and Alfred felt the worry twist deeper. Dad sanctioned drugging was rare, which meant Matthew had really worked himself up. “Though I don’t blame him,” the albino expanded, eyeing Alfred pointedly, “Ludwig’s gone to keep an eye on him.” _Because he can’t bear to be around you_.

            _That_ stung. Although, to be honest, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.

            He wasn’t sure if he could handle Ludwig being around at this point, either.

            “So…” the angel drew out after a moment of silence, twisting the hands he’d tucked away in his pants pockets, “I guess that means I’m not going to be best man at your bonding.”

            The startled laugh that escaped him choked under the weight of the unshed tears he’d been holding back since the healers had given him the news.

            He would never be able to Bond.

            Well, not with Ludwig, at least. And not with any one who caught his fancy. He wouldn’t be able to court or be courted. He wouldn’t be allowed to bond with the man he loved. He couldn’t allow himself fall in love again. The only thing that lay down that path was pain.

            As if his captor hadn’t stolen enough from him…Ivan had to take one last thing that didn’t belong to him. Yet another thing that he could never reclaim for his own.

            And now the only person he could ever Bond with, was the man who’d stolen the choice from him.

            But the monarch had stolen enough from him, Alfred would not give him the victory of shedding tears over him another time. Besides, he though as he glanced to the window, the sky was crying enough for the both of them. He brushed the tears from his eyes, lips quirking up in a barely subdued smile when he noticed Gil’s unsubtle panic at the sight of watery blues. Gil hadn’t ever dealt well with tears, he knew from Ludwig’s old childhood stories. Oh, while he was an interrogator, Gilbert had made due – the tears of his prisoners shouldn’t affect him, _wouldn’t_ affect him, because his job and his integrity were on the line if they did – but with a personal connection, it made it all the harder for Gil to react.

            “At least Lutz doesn’t have to worry about your wedding speech,” he huffed, and breathed. The flow of air gentled the aching sobs that yearned to be unleashed, but he could control them. He didn’t, often, but he could. “You know how he overthinks things.”

            Gilbert huffed – he wasn’t _that_ bad – but Alfred laughed, and the put upon expression on the former Fallen’s face eased as he spotted the warmth in his eyes. For a split second, as he looked upon the Sky’s favored, he could _feel_ the dawn break through storm clouds and rainy downpours alike.

            But one look at the sky itself and he realized it was going to be much harder to overcome the newly imposed boundary that he’d thought.

            “You know, kiddo,” the white-haired angel hesitated for a second, “it’s not your fault. None of this is.”

            Alfred’s eyes narrowed in a poisonous glare, “You think I don’t know that?” he snapped. It was sheer chance – or Fate’s meddling – that led him to be captured, for Ivan to take an interest, for Gil to have recognized the crest on his courting sash…for his father’s spell on his wings to _hold_ , just long enough for him to find a way out…. Everything that had happened to him, the whole stars damned series of chance and coincidence…how likely was it that it would’ve happened to someone else. Nevertheless, it’d been pounded into his head, at this point, that there was no way he could’ve been at fault for being caught. For being vulnerable. For not being good enough.

            … _okay_ , so maybe he didn’t _entirely_ believe them just yet. But Gil was the _last_ person who could lecture him about chance and circumstance.

            “I’m just saying, brat,” he said hurriedly, holding his hands up in a placating gesture before whacking him around the head, smirking as he yelped. “It’s highly unlikely that this’ll affect you more than it is now,” he said, pointedly, “You can still fly, you can still weave magical wonders that even your father can’t claim mastery of, you’re still _yourself_. Don’t count yourself out so soon, brat. You’re selling yourself too short.”

            Alfred glared, but sighed, risking a glance at the still stormy skies beyond the thick sheet of window glass. Gilbert _did_ have a point.

            _I shouldn’t be alive_ , he thought. None of his angelic kin had survived even a year in torturous captivity. Yet…he _had_.

            He had come back _alive_ , and almost completely unaffected – in terms of physical and magical capability, at least; they weren’t touching emotional trauma with a barge pole – and that was a miracle that spoke of Fate’s meddling and Alfred’s genetically inherited tenacity more than anything else.

            He thought of the sky, of his mother’s smile, and the way the stars gleamed in her eyes when something was about to go her way.

            And then, on her deathbed, how she’d pulled him close and smiled.

            _“All my gifts, as they were bestowed upon me, I now gift them to you. My darling child.”_ The sky should’ve never felt the same afterwards, and it hadn’t. But that hadn’t stopped him from _wondering_ …

            “Cheer up, kid,” Gilbert elbowed him, and he shoved him back, laughing a bit when the other caught him up in a headlock, “at least there’s no way Ivan can get to you up here.”

            _“The sky will always be safe for you_.”

            After all, what were the chances that the Fallen Monarch would find him in Heaven and try to bond? Especially when the bond was a two way street?

            _No chance in Hell. Literally_.

            “Think Dad has any of that tea left over?” he blurted, and Gilbert froze, before he grinned.

            “If he doesn’t, I know where to find something better,” the albino cackled, and Alfred had a feeling he’d be hearing the kitchen aids complain about the alcohol stash gone missing again, “C’mon, let’s go give the healers a heart attack!”

            As Gilbert dragged him away from his sentinel at the window, lightning flashed, once, twice, and thrice more, before it vanished and the sky lightened. It was barely noticeable, indiscernible from all the chaos churning within the clouded realm. But it was enough to lighten the storm within his heart.

            And anyways, he was always up for drowning his pain in the alcohol his brother-in-law would sneak him. And maybe, this time, the pain would fade when the hangover came.

            He was in the sky, after all, and his mother’s legacy would always protect him here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me.


End file.
